
Rnnk ■ 4^. 



POEMS 



BY 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



NEW AND COMPLETE EDITION 



IN ONE VOLUME 










v>P ^ 



NEW YORK 
MACMILLAN AND CO. 

MDCCCLXXXX 






;S2 



^ 



& 



CONTENTS. 



EARLY POEMS. 

SONNETS : — 

"^ QUIET WORK 

TO A FRIEND ....... a 

— 'SHAKSPEARE ^ 

WRITTEN IN EMERSON'S ESSAYS ... 3 

WRITTEN IN butler's SERMONS ... 3 

TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON ... 4 

*IN HARMONY WITH NATURE' .... 5 

TO GEORGE CRUIKSHANK 5 

TO A REPUBLICAN FRIEND, 1 848 ... 6 

CONTINUED 7 

RELIGIOUS ISOLATION 7 

MYCERINUS 8 

THE CHURCH OF BROU : — 

1. THE CASTLE . , , , . .12 

2. THE CHURCH 16 

3. THE TOMB 18 

A MODERN SAPPHO 19 

REQUIESCAT 21 

YOUTH AND CALM 22 

\j A MEMORY-PICTURE " 23 

THE NEW SIRENS .••••,.35 



IV CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE VOICE 34 

YOUTH'S AGITATIONS 36 

THE world's triumphs 36 

STAGIRIUS 37 

HUMAN LIFE 39 

TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SEASHORE ... 40 

A QUESTION 43 

IN UTRUMQUE PARATUS 43 

THE WORLD AND THE QUIETIST .... 45 

THE SECOND BEST 46 

CONSOLATION 47 

RESIGNATION 49 



NARRATIVE POEMS. 

VSOHRAB AND RUSTUM' , , 59 

THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA ..... 86 
BALDER DEAD : — 

1. SENDING 94 

2. JOURNEY TO THE DEAD .... I04 

3. FUNERAL • / • • • • • .114 
TRISTRAM AND ISEULt': — 

1. TRISTRAM . . , , . . .131 

2. ISEULT OF IRELAND 143 

3. ISEULT OF BRITTANY 1 50 

NsAINT BRANDAN 157 

4the neckan . , ^ 159 

XtHE FORSAKEN merman kdx. 



SONNETS. 

AUSTERITY OF POETRY ...••. 167 

K PICTURE AT NEWSTEAD 167 

RACHEL: I, II, III 168 



CONTENTS. V 

PAGE 

WORLDLY PLACE 170 

VeAST LONDON 170 

VWEST LONDON 171 

EAST AND WEST 171 

THE BETTER PART 173 

THE DIVINITY , ....... 172 

IMMORTALITY 173 

THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID ... 173 

MONICA'S LAST PRAYER 1 74 

LYRIC AND DRAMATIC POEMS. 

SWITZERLAND : — 

^1. MEETING ....... 175 

2. PARTING 176 

3. A FAREWELL 179 

4. ISOLATION. TO MARGUERITE . . . 182 

5. TO MARGUERITE. CONTINUED . . . 183 

6. ABSENCE . , 184 

7. THE TERRACE AT BERNE . . . .185 

THE STRAYED REVELLER I 87 

FRAGMENT OF AN 'ANTIGONE' . . . .197 

FRAGMENT OF CHORUS OF A ' DEJANEIRA ' . . 20I 

EARLY DEATH AND FAME .... * 202 

PHILOMELA 202 

URANIA . 204 

EUPHROSYNE , 205 

CALAIS SANDS 2o6 

FADED LEAVES: — 

1. THE RIVER . 207 

,2. TOO^iJLATE . 208 

''3. SEPARATION 2o8 

4. ON THE RHINE 209 

5. LONGING . , 209 



-^A 



vi CONTENTS. 

PACH 

DESPONDENCY 2IC 

SELF-DECEPTION 2IO 

DOVER BEACH 211 

GROWING OLD 213 

THE PROGRESS OF POESY 214 

PIS-ALLER 214 

THE LAST WORD 215 

A NAMELESS EPITAPH 215 

EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 2l6 

BACCHANALIA; OR, THE NEW AGE .... 254 

EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON .... 258 

PERSISTENCY OF POETRY . • • . . 264 

A CAUTION TO POETS 264 

THE YOUTH OF NATURE 265 

THE YOUTH OF MAN 269 

PALLADIUM 273 

PROGRESS 273 

REVOLUTIONS 275 

SELF-DEPENDENCE 276 

MORALITY 277 

A SUMMER NIGHT 278 

^THE BURIED LIFE 281 

LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS . . 284 

s\ A WISH 286 

THE FUTURE 288 



ELEGIAC POEMS. 

VtHE SCHOLAR-GIPSY 29 1 

THYRSIS 299 

MEMORIAL VERSES 307 

STANZAS IN MEMORY OF EDWARD QUILLINAN . 310 

STANZAS FROM CARNAC 311 



, CONTENTS. Vii 

, PAGE 

V A SOUTHERN NIGHT , , . , , . 312 

y'HA WORTH CHURCHYARD 317 

EPILOGUE 321 

V RUGBY CHAPEL 321 

HEINE'S GRAVE 328 

STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE . . 335 
STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF * OBER- 

MANN' , 342 

OBERMANN ONCE MORE .*•••• 348 

NOTES ••••••••• 361 



EARLY POEMS. 



SONNETS. 

Quiet Work. 

One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, 
One lesson which in every wind is blown. 
One lesson of two duties kept at one 
Though the loud world proclaim their enmity— 

Of toil unsever'd from tranquillity ; 
Of labour, that in lasting fruit outgrows 
Far noisier schemes, accomplish'd in repose. 
Too great for haste, too high for rivalry. 

Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring, 
Man's senseless uproar mingling with his toil. 
Still do thy quiet ministers move on, 

Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting; 
Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil, 
Labourers that shall not fail, when man is gone 

B 



SONNETS. 



To a Friend. 

Who prop, thou ask'st, in these bad days, my mind ? — . 
He much, the old man, who, clearest-soul'd of men 
Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,^ 
And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind. 

Much he, whose friendship I not long since won, ' 
That halting slave, who in Nicopolis 
Taught Airian, when Vespasian's brutal son 
Clear'd Rome of , what most shamed him. But be his 

My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul. 
From first youth tested up to extreme old age, 
Business could not make dull, nor passion wild; 

Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole; 
The mellow glory of the Attic stage, 
Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child. 



Shahspeare. 



Others abide our question. Thou art free. 
We ask and ask — Thou smilest and art still, 
Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill, 
Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty. 

Planting his stedfast footsteps in the sea, 
Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place. 
Spares but the cloudy border of his base 
To the foil'd searching of mortality; 



SONNETS, 3 

And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, 
Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, 
Didst tread on earth unguess'd at. — Better so I 

All pains the immortal spirit must endure. 

All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow, 

Find their sole speech in that victorious brow. 



Written in Emerson^ s Essays. 

*0 MONSTROUS, dead, unprofitable world. 
That thou canst hear, and hearing, hold thy way I 
A voice oracular hath peal'd to-day, 
To-day a hero's banner is unfurl'd ; 

Hast thou no lip for welcome?' — So I said. 
Man after man, the world smiled and pass'd by ; 
A smile of wistful incredulity 
As though one spake of life unto the dead — 

Scornful, and strange, and sorrowful, and full 
Of bitter knowledge. Yet the will is free ; 
Strong is the soul, and wise, and beautiful; 

The seeds of godlike power are in us still ; 
Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we will f — 
Dumb judges, answer, truth or mockery ? 



Written in Butler s Sermons. 

Affections, Instincts, Principles, and Powers, 
Impulse and Reason, Freedom and Control- 
So men, unravelling God's harmonious whole, 
Rend in a thousand shreds this life of ours. 

B 2 



4 SONNETS. 

Vain labour 1 Deep and broad, where none may see, 
Spring the foundations of that shadowy throne 
Where man's one nature, queen-Uke, sits alone, 
Centred in a majestic unity; 

And rays her powers, like sister-islands seen 

Linking their coral arms under the sea. 

Or cluster'd peaks with plunging gulfs between 

Spann'd by aerial arches all of gold, 
Whereo'er the chariot wheels of life are roll'd 
In cloudy circles to eternity. 



To the Duke of Wellington. 

ON HEARING HIM MISPRAISED. 

Because thou hast believed, the wheels of life 
Stand never idle, but go always round ; 
Not by their hands, who vex the patient ground, 
Moved only ; but by genius, in the strife 

Of all its chafing torrents after thaw, 
Urged ; and to feed whose movement, spinning sand, 
The feeble sons of pleasure set their hand ; 
And, in this vision of the general law. 

Hast labour'd, but with purpose ; hast become 
Laborious, persevering, serious, firm — 
For this, thy track, across the fretful foam 

Of vehement actions without scope or term, 
Call'd history, keeps a splendour ; due to wit, 
Which saw one clue to life, and follow'd it. 



SONNETS. 5 

In Harmony with Nature. 

TO A PREACHER. 

'In harmony with Nature?' Restless fool, 
Who with such heat dost preach what were to thee, 
When true, the last impossibility — 
To be like Nature strong, like Nature cool! 

Know, man hath all which Nature hath, but more. 
And in that more lie all his hopes of good. 
Nature is cruel, man is sick of blood ; 
Nature is stubborn, man would fain adore ; 

Nature is fickle, man hath need of rest; 

Nature forgives no debt, and fears no grave; 

Man would be mild, and with safe conscience blest. 

Man must begin, know this, where Nature ends; 
Nature and man can never be fast friends. 
Fool, if thou canst not pass her, rest her slave! 



To George Cruikshank. 

ON SEEING, IN THE COUNTRY, HIS PICTURE 
OF 'the BOTTLE.' 

Artist, whose hand, with horror wing'd, hath torn 
From the rank life of towns this leaf ! and flung 
The prodigy of full-blown crime among 
Valleys and men to middle fortune born. 



6 SONNETS. 

Not innocent, indeed, yet not forlorn — 

Say, what shall calm us when such guests intrude 

Like comets on the heavenly solitude? 

Shall breathless glades, cheer'd by shy Dian's horn. 

Cold-bubbling springs, or caves ? — Not so ! The soul 
Breasts her own griefs; and, urged too fiercely, says: 
' Why tremble ? True, the nobleness of man 

May be by man effaced ; man can control 
To pain, to death, the bent of his own days. 
Know thou the worst ! So much, not more, he can.' 



To a Republican Friend^ 1848. 

God knows it, I am with you. If to prize 
Those virtues, prized and practised by too few, 
But prized, but loved, but eminent in you, 
Man's fundamental life ; if to despise 

The barren optimistic sophistries 
Of comfortable moles, whom what they do 
Teaches the limit of the just and true 
(And for such doing they require not eyes); 

If sadness at the long heart-wasting show 
Wherein earth's great ones are disquieted; 
If thoughts, not idle, while before me flow 

The armies of the homeless and unfed — 
If these are yours, if this is what you are. 
Then am I yours, and what you feel, I share. 



SONNETS. 



Cotitmued. 



Yet, when I muse on what life is, I seem 
Rather to patience prompted, than that proud 
Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud- 
France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme; 

Seeing this vale, this earth, whereon we dream. 
Is on all sides o'ershadow'd by the high 
Uno'erleap'd Mountains of Necessity, 
Sparing us narrower margin than we deem. 

Nor will that day dawn at a human nod. 
When, bursting through the network superposed 
By selfish occupation — plot and plan, 

Lust, avarice, envy — liberated man, 

All difference with his fellow-mortal closed, 

Shall be left standing face to face v/ith God. 



Religious Isolation. 

TO THE SAME FRIEND. 

Children (as such forgive them) have I known, 
Ever in their own eager pastime bent 
To make the incurious bystander, intent 
On his own swarming thoughts, an interest own- 
Too fearful or to fond to play alone. 
Do thou, whom light in thine own inmost soul 
(Not less thy boast) illuminates, control 
Wishes unworthy of a man full-grown. 



8 MYCERINUS. 

What though the holy secret, which moulds thee, 
Moulds not the solid earth ? though never winds 
Have whisper 'd it to th • complaining sea, 

Nature's great law, and law of all men's minds ?— 
To its own impulse every creature stirs ; 
Live by thy light, and earth will live by hers ! 



MYCERINUS.2 

' Not by the justice that my father spurn'd, 

Not for the thousands whom my father slew, 

Altars unfed and temples overturn'd. 

Cold hearts and thankless tongues, where thanka 

are due ; 
Fell this dread voice from lips that cannot lie, 
Stern sentence of the Powers of Destiny. 

' I will unfold my sentence and my crime. 
My crime — that, rapt in reverential awe, 
I sate obedient, in the fiery prime 
Of youth, self-govcrn'd, at the feet of L aw ; 
Ennobling this dull pomp, the lite of kings, 
By contemplation of diviner things. 

' My father loved injustice, and lived long ; 
Crown'd with grey hairs he died, and full of sway. 
I loved the good he scorn'd, and hated wrong — 
The Gods declare my recompence to-day. 
I look'd for life more lasting, rule more high; 
And when six years are measured, lo, I die I 



MYCERINUS, 9 

*Yet surely, O my people, did I deem 
Man's justice from the all-just Gods was given; 
A light that from some upper fount did beam, 
Some better archetype, whose seat was heaven; 
A light that, shining from the blest abodes, 
Did shadow somewhat of the life of Gods. 

* Mere phantoms of man's self-tormenting heart, 
Which on the sweets that woo it dares not feed! 
Vain dreams, which quench our pleasures, then depart. 
When the duped soul, self-master'd, claims its meed; 
When, on the strenuous just man. Heaven bestows, 
Crown of his struggling life, an unjust close! 

' Seems it so light a thing then, austere Powers, 
To spurn man's common lure, life's pleasant things? 
Seems there no joy in dances crown'd with flowers, 
Love, free to range, and regal banquetings? 
Bend ye on these, indeed, an unmoved eye, 
Not Gods but ghosts, in frozen apathy ? 

' Or is it that some Force, too stern, too strong, 
Even for yourselves to conquer or beguile. 
Bears earth, and heaven, and men, and gods along, 
Like the broad volume of the insurgent Nile? 
And the great powers we serve, themselves may be 
Slaves of a tyrannous necessity? 

'Or in mid-heaven, perhaps, your golden cars, 
Where earthly voice climbs never, wing their flight, 
And in wild hunt, through mazy tracts of stars. 
Sweep in the sounding stillness of the night? 
Or in deaf ease, on thrones of dazzling sheen, 
Drinking deep draughts of joy, ye dwell serene ? 



lo MYCERINUS. 

* Oh, wherefore cheat • our youth, if thus it be, 
Of one short joy, one lust, one pleasant dream? 
Stringing vain words of powers we cannot see. 
Blind divinations of a will supreme ; 

Lost labour ! when the circumambient gloom 
But hides, if Gods, Gods careless of our doom? 

* The rest I give to joy. Even while I speak. 
My sand runs short; and — as yon star- shot ray, 
Hemm'd by two banks of cloud, peers pale and weak, 
Now, as the barrier closes, dies away — 

Even so do past and future intertwine, 

Blotting this six years' space, which yet is mine. 

' Six years — six little years — six drops of time ! 
Yet suns shall rise, and many moons shall wane. 
And old men die, and young men pass their primC; 
And languid pleasure fade and flower again, 
And the dull Gods behold, ere these are flown, 
Revels more deep, joy keener than their own. 

' Into the silence of the groves and woods 
I will go forth ; though something would I say — 
Something — yet what, I know not ; for the Gods 
The doom they pass revoke not, nor delay ; 
And prayers, and gifts, and tears, are fruitless all, 
And the night waxes, and the shadows fall. 

* Ye men of Egypt, ye have heard your king I 
I go, and I return not. But the will 

Of the great Gods is plain; and ye must bring 
111 deeds, ill passions, zealous to fulfil 
Their pleasure, to their feet; and reap their praise. 
The praise of Gods, rich boon ! and length of days.* 



MYCERINUS. 11 

— So spake he, half in anger, half in scorn; 
And one loud cry of grief and of amaze 
Broke from his sorrowing people ; so he spake, 
And turning, left them there ; and with brief pause, 
Girt with a throng of revellers, bent his way 
To the cool region of the groves he loved. 
There by the river-banks he wander'd on, 
From palm-grove on to palm -grove, happy trees. 
Their smooth tops shining sunward, and beneath 
Burying their unsunn'd stems in grass and flowers ; 
Where in one dream the feverish time of youth 
Might fade in slumber, and the feet of joy 
Might wander all day long and never tire. 
Here came the king, holding high feast, at morn, 
Rose-crown'd ; and ever, when the sun went down, 
A hundred lamps beam'd in the tranquil gloom, 
From tree to tree all through the twinkling grove, 
Revealing all the tumult of the feast — 
Flush'd guests, and golden goblets foam'd with wine; 
While the deep-burnish'd foliage overhead 
Splinter'd the silver arrows of the moon. 

It may be that sometimes his wondering soul 
From the loud joyful laughter of his lips 
Might shrink half startled, like a guilty man 
Who wrestles with his dream ; as some pale shape, 
Gliding half hidden through the dusky stems, 
Would thrust a hand before the lifted bowl. 
Whispering : A little space, and thou art mine I 
It may be on that joyless feast his eye 
Dwelt with mere outward seeming; he, within. 
Took measure of his soul, and knew its strength. 
And by that silent knowledge, day by day, 
Was calm'd, ennobled, comforted, sustain'd. 
It may be; but not less his brow was smooth, 



12 THE CHURCH OF BROU. 

And his clear laugh fled ringing through the gloom, 

And his mirth quail'd not at the mild reproof 

Sigh'd out by winter's sad tranquillity; 

Nor, pall'd with its own fulness, ebb'd and died 

In the rich languor of long summer-days ; 

Nor wither'd when the palm-tree plumes, that roof'd 

With their mild dark his grassy banquet-hall, 

Bent to the cold winds of the showerless spring ; 

No, nor grew dark when autumn brought the clouds. 

So six long years he revell'd, night and day. 
And when the mirth wax'd loudest, with dull sound 
Sometimes from the grove's centre echoes came, 
To tell his wondering people of their king; 
In the still night, across the steaming flats, 
Mix'd with the murmur of the moving Nile. 



THE CHURCH OF BROU. 

I. 

"STIbE €nstl£. 

Down the Savoy valleys sounding, 
Echoing round this castle old, 

'Mid the distant mountain-chalets 

Hark 1 what bell for church is toll'd ? 

In the bright October morning 
Savoy's Duke had left his bride. 

From the castle, past the drawbridge, 
Flow'd the hunters' merry tide. 



7. THE CASTLE. 13 

Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering. 

Gay, her smiling lord to greet, 
From her muUion'd chamber-casement 

Smiles the Duchess Marguerite. 

From Vienna, by the Danube, 

Here she came, a bride, in spring. 
Now the autumn crisps the forest; 

Hunters gather, bugles ring. 

Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing, 
Horses fret, and boar-spears glance. 

Off! — They sweep the marshy forests, 
Westward on the side of France. 

Hark ! the game 's on foot ; they scatter I— 

Down the forest-ridings lone, 
Furious, single horsemen gallop. — 

Hark ! a shout — a crash — a groan ! 

Pale and breathless, came the hunters — 

On the turf dead lies the boar. 
God ! the Duke lies stretch'd beside him. 

Senseless, weltering in his gore. 

In the dull October evening, 

Down the leaf-strewn forest-road. 
To the castle, past the drawbridge, 

Came the hunters with their load. 

In the hall, with sconces blazing, 

Ladies waiting round her seat. 
Clothed in smiles, beneath the dais 

Sate the Duchess Marguerite. 



,4 THE CHURCH OF BROU. 

Hark ! below the gates unbarring ! 

Tramp of men and quick commands I 
' — 'Tis my lord come back from hunting.'- 

And the Duchess claps her hands. 

Slow and tired, came the hunters ; 

Stopp'd in darkness in the court. 
' — Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters! 

To the halll What sport, what sport?'— 

Slow they enter'd with their master ; 

In the hall they laid him down. 
On his coat were leaves and blood-stains. 

On his brow an angry frown. 

Dead her princely youthful husband 

Lay before his youthful wife, 
Bloody 'neath the flaring sconces — 

And the sight froze all her life. 

In Vienna, by the Danube, 

Kings hold revel, gallants meet. 

Gay of old amid the gayest 
Was the Duchess Marguerite. 

In Vienna, by the Danube, 

Feast and dance her youth beguiled. 

Till that hour she never sorrow'd; 
But from then she never smiled. 

'Mid the Savoy mountain-valleys 
Far from town or haunt of man, 

Stands a lonely church, unfinish'd, 
Which the Duchess Maud began; 



/. THE CASTLE. 15 

Old, that Duchess stern began it, 

In grey age, with palsied hands; 
But she died while it was building, 

And the Church unfinish'd stands- 
Stands as erst the builders left it, 

When she sank into her grave ; 
Mountain greensward paves the chancel; 

Harebells flower in the nave. 

* — In my castle all is sorrow,' 

Said the Duchess Marguerite then; 

* Guide me, some one, to the mountain ! 
We will build the Church again.' — ■ 

Sandall'd palmers, faring homeward, 
Austrian knights from Syria came. 

* — Austrian wanderers bring, O warders 1 
Homage to your Austrian dame.' — 

From the gate the warders answer'd : 
' — Gone, O knights, is she you knew ! 

Dead our Duke, and gone his Duchess. 
Seek her at the Church of Brou !' — 

Austrian knights and march-worn palmers 

Climb the winding mountain- way ; 
Reach the valley, where the fabric 

Rises higher day by day. 

Stones are sawing, hammers ringing — 
On the work the bright sun shines; 

In the Savoy mountain-meadows, 
By the stream, below the pines. 



i6 THE CriURCn OF BROU. 

On her palfrey white the Duchess 

Sate and watch'd her working train — 

Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders, 
German masons, smiths from Spain. 

Clad in black, on her white palfrey, 

Her old architect beside — 
There they found her in the mountains, 

Morn and noon and eventide. 

There she sate, and watch'd the builders, 
Till the Church was roof 'd and done. 

Last of all, the builders rear'd her 
In the nave a tomb of stone. 

On the tomb two forms they sculptured, 

Lifelike in the marble pale — 
One, the Duke in helm and armour; 

One, the Duchess in her veil. 

Round the tomb the carved stone fret-work 

Was at Easter-tide put on. 
Then the Duchess closed her labours; 

And she died at the St. John. 



IL 

Upon the glistening leaden roof 

Of the new pile, the sunlight shines; 

The stream goes leaping by. 
The hills are clothed with pines sun-proof; 



//. THE CHURCH. 

'Mid bright green fields, below the pines, 

Stands the Church on high. 
What Church is this, from men aloof? — 
'Tis the Church of Brou, 

At sunrise, from their dewy lair 
Crossing the stream, the kine are seen 

Round the wall to stray — 
The churchyard wall that clips the square 
Of open hill-sward fresh and green 

Where last year they lay. 
But all things now are order'd fair 
Round the Church of Brou. 

On Sundays, at the matin-chime. 
The Alpine peasants, two and three, 

Climb up here to pray ; 
Burghers and dames, at summer's prime, 
Ride out to church from Chambery, 

Dight with mantles gay. 
But else it is a lonely time 
Round the Church of Brou. 

On Sundays, too, a priest doth come 
From the wall'd town beyond the pass, 

Down the mountain-way ; 
And then you hear the organ's hum, 
You hear the white-robed priest say mass, 

And the people pray. 
But else the woods and fields are dumb 
Round the Church of Brou. 

And after church, when mass is done, 
The people to the nave repair 
Round the tomb to stray; 
And marvel at the forms of stone, 
c 



17 



1 8 THE CHURCH OF BROU. 

And praise the chisell'd broideries ran 

Then they drop away. 
The princely pair are left alone 
In the Church of Brou. 



III. 



So restj for ever rest, O princely Pair! 
In your high church, 'mid the still mountain-air, 
Where horn, and hound, and vassals, never come. 
Only the blessed Saints are smiling dumb 
From the rich painted windows of the nave 
On aisle, and transept, and your marble grave; 
Where thou, young Prince, shalt never more arise 
From the fringed mattress where thy Duchess lies, 
On autumn-mornings, when the bugle sounds, 
And ride across the drawbridge with thy hounds 
To hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve; 
And thou, O Princess, shalt no more receive, 
Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state, 
The jaded hunters with their bloody freight, 
Coming benighted to the castle-gate. 

So sleep, for ever sleep, O marble Pairl 
Or, if ye wake, let it be then, when fair 
On the carved western front a flood of light 
Streams from the setting sun, and colours bright 
Prophets, transfigured Saints, and Martyrs brave, 
In the vast western window of the nave; 
And on the pavement round the tomb there glints 
A chequer-work of glowing sapphire-tints, 



A MODERN SAPPHO. 19 

And amethyst, and ruby — then unclose 

Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose, 

And from your broider'd pillows lift your heads, 

And rise upon your cold white marble beds; 

And looking down on the warm rosy tints 

Which chequer, at your feet, the illumined flints. 

Say : What is this ? we are in bliss— forgiven — 

Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven I 

Or let it be on autumn-nights, when rain 

Doth rustHngly above your heads complain 

On the smooth leaden roof, and on the walls 

Shedding her pensive light at intervals 

The moon through the clere-story windows shines, 

And the wind washes through the mountain-pines ; — ■ 

Then, gazing up 'mid the dim pillars high, 

The foliaged marble forest where ye lie, 

Hush, ye will say, it is eternity ! 

This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and these 

The columns of the heavenly palaces. 

And in the sweeping of the wind your ear 

The passage of the Angels' wings will hear, 

And on the lichen-crusted leads above 

The rustle of the eternal rain of love. 



A MODERN SAPPHO. 

They are gone — all is still ! Foolish heart, dost 
thou quiver? 
Nothing stirs on the lawn but the quick lilac- 
shade. 

C 2 



20 A MODERN SAPPHO. 

Far up shines the house, and beneath flows the 
river — 
Here lean, my head, on this cold balustrade 1 

Ere he come — ere the boat by the shining-branch'd 
border 
Of dark elms shoot round, dropping down the 
proud stream, 
Let me pause, let me strive, in myself make some 
order, 
Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broider'd 
flags gleam. 

Last night we stood earnestly talking together; 

She enter' d — that moment his eyes turn'd from me 1 
Fasten'd on her dark hair, and her wreath of white 
heather — 

As yesterday was, so to-morrow will be. 

Their love, let me know, must grow strong and yet 
stronger. 
Their passion burn more, ere it ceases to burn. 
They must love — while they must! but the hearts 
that love longer 
Are rare — ah ! most loves but flow once, and return. 

I shall suffer — but they will outlive their affection; 

I shall weep — but their love will be cooling; and he, 
As he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection. 

Will be brought, thou poor heart, how much nearer 
to thee ! 

For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breaking 
The strong band which passion around him hath 
furl'd, 



REQUIESCAT. 21 

Disenchanted by habit, and newly awaking, 

Looks languidly round on a gloom-buried world. 

Through that gloom he will see but a shadow ap- 
pearing, 
Perceive but a voice as I come to his side; 
— But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their 
bearing, 
Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died. 

So, to wait !- But what notes down the wind, hark ! 

are driving ? 

'Tis he ! 'tis their flag, shooting round by the trees 1 
-■ — Let my turn, if it will come, be swift in arriving! 

Ah! hope cannot long lighten torments like these. 

Hast thou yet dealt him, O life, thy full measure? 

World, have thy children yet bow'd at his knee ? 
Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crown'd him, O pleasure ? 

— Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me. 



REQUIESCAT. 

Strew on her roses, roses, 
And never a spray of yew ! 

In quiet she reposes; 

Ah! would that I did too. 

Her mirth the world required; 

She bathed it in smiles of glee. 
But her heart was tired, tired, 

And now they let her be. 



YOUTH AND CALM. 

Her life was turning, turning, 
In mazes of heat and sound; 

BuKfor peace her soul was yearning, 
And now peace laps her round. 

Her cabin'd, ample spirit. 

It flutter'd and fail'd for breath; 

To-night it doth inherit 
The vasty hall of death. 



YOUTH AND CALM. 

'Tis death ! and peace, indeed, is here, 

And ease from shame, and rest from fear. 

There's nothing can dismarble now 

The smoothness of that limpid brow. 

But is a calm like this, in truth, 

The crowning end of life and youth, 

And when this boon rewards the dead, 

Are all debts paid, has all been said ? . ^ 

And .is the heart of youth so light, ^ 

Its step so firm, its eye so bright, 

Because on its hot brow there blows 

A wind of promise and repose 

From the far grave, to which it goes; 

Because it has the hope to come, 

One day, to harbour in the tomb? 

Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is -Dne 

For daylight, for the cheerful sun, 

For feeling nerves and living breath — 

Youth dreams a bliss on this side death. 



A MEMORY- PICTURE. 23 

It dreams a rest, if not more deep, 
More grateful than this marble sleep ; 
It hears a voice within it tell: 
Calm 's 7iot life's croum, though calm is well. 
'Tis all perhaps which man acquires, 
But 'tis not what our youth desires. 



A MEMORY -PICTURE. 

Laugh, my friends, and without blame 
Lightly quit what lightly came; 
Rich to-morrow as to-day, 
Spend as madly as you may I 
I, with little land to stir. 
Am the exacter labourer. 
Ere the parting hour go by, 
Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 

Once I said: 'A face is gone 

If too hotly mused upon; 
-And our best impressions are 

Those that do themselves repair.' 

Many a face I so let flee, 

Ah I is faded utterly. 

Ere the parting hour go by. 
Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 

Marguerite says : ' As last year went, 
So the coming year '11 be spent ; 
Some day next year, I shall be, 
Entering heedless, Idss'd by thee.* 



24 A MEMORY- PICTURE. 

Ah, I hope ! — yet, once away, 
What may chain us, who can say ? 
Ere the parting hour go by, 
Quick, thy tablets, Memory 

Paint that lilac kerchief, bound 
Her soft face, her hair around; 
Tied under the archest chin 
Mockery ever ambush'd in. 
Let the fluttering fringes streak 
All her pale, sweet-rounded cheek. 
Ere the parting hour go by, 
Quick, thy tablets, Memory 1 

Paint that figure's pliant grace 
As she toward me lean'd her face, 
Half refused and half resign'd, 
Murmuring : ' Art thou still unkind ?' 
Many a broken promise then 
Was new made — to break again. 
Ere the parting hour go by, 
Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 

Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind. 

Eager tell-tales of her mind ; 

Paint, with their impetuous stress 

Of enquiring tenderness, 

Those frank eyes, where deep doth be 

An angelic gravity. 

Ere the parting hour go by, 
Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 

What, my friends, these feeble lines 
Shew, you say, my love declines ? 



THE NEW SIRENS. 25 

To paint ill as I have done, 
Proves forgetfulness begun ? 
Time's gay minions, pleased you see, 
Time, your master, governs me ; 

Pleased, you mock the fruitless cry : 

'Quick, thy tablets. Memory!' 

Ah, too true! Time's current strong 
Leaves us true to nothing long. 
Yet, if little stays with man. 
Ah, retain we all we can ! 
If the clear impression dies. 
Ah, the dim remembrance prize 1 

Ere the parting hour go by, 

Quick, thy tablets, Memory 1 



THE NEW SIRENS. 

In the cedar-shadow sleeping, 
Where cool grass and fragrant glooms 
Late at eve had lured me, creeping 
From your darken'd palace rooms — 
I, who in your train at mormng 
Stroll'd and sang with joyful mind. 
Heard, in slumber, sounds of warning ; 
Saw the hoarse boughs labour in the wind. 

Who are they, O pensive Graces, 
— For I dream'd they wore your forms — 
Who on shores and sea-wash'd places 
Scoop the shelves and fret the storms? 



26 THE NEW SIRENS. 

Who, when ships are that way tending, 
Troop across the flushing sands, 
To all reefs and narrows wending, 
Wiih blown tresses, and with beckoning hands? 

Yet I see, the howling levels 
Of the deep are not your lair; 
And your tragic-vaunted revels 
Are less lonely than they were. 
Like those Kings with treasure steering 
From the jewell'd lands of dawn. 
Troops, with gold and gifts, appearing. 
Stream all day through your enchanted lawn. 

And we too, from upland valleys, 
Where some Muse with half-curved frown 
Leans her ear to your mad sallies 
Which the charm'd winds never drown ; 
By faint music guided, ranging 
The scared glens, we wander'd on, 
Left our awful laurels hanging, 
And came heap'd with myrtles to your throne. 

From the dragon-warder'd fountains 
Where the springs of knowledge are, 
From the watchers on the mountains, 
And the bright and morning star; 
We are exiles, we are falling. 
We have lost them at your call — 
O ye false ones, at your calling 
Seeking ceiled chambers and a palace-hall I 

Are the accents of )our luring 
More melodious than of yore ? 
Are those frail forms more enduring 
Than the charms Ulysses bore? 



THE NEW SIRENS. 



27 



That we sought you with rejoicings. 
Till at evening we descry 
At a pause of Siren voicings 
These vext branches and this howling sky ? 



Oh, your pardon ! The uncouthness 
Of that primal age is gone, 
And the skin of dazzling smoothness 
Screens not now a heart of stone. 
Love has fiush'd those cruel faces ; 
And those slacken'd arms forgo 
The delight of death-embraces, 
And yon whitening bone-mounds do not grow. 

* Ah,' you say ; * the large appearance 
Of man's labour is but vain, 
And we plead as staunch adherence 
Due to pleasure as to pain.' 
Pointing to earth's careworn creatures, 
' Come,' you murmur with a sigh : 
' Ah ! we own diviner features, 
Loftier bearing, and a prouder eye. 

'Come,' you say, 'the hours were dreary; 
Life without love does but fade ; 
Vain it wastes, and we grew weary 
In the slumbrous cedarn shade. 
Round our hearts with long caresses, 
With low sighings. Silence stole, 
And her load of steaming tresses 
Weigh'd, like Ossa, on the aery soul. 



28 THE NE IV SIRENS. 

* Come/ you say, * the soul is fainting 
Till she search and learn her own, 
And the wisdom of man's painting 
Leaves her riddle half unknown. 
Come,' you say, ' the brain is seeking, 
While the princely heart is dead ; 
Yet this glean'd, when Gods were speaking, 
Rarer secrets than the toiling head. 

' Come,' you say, ' opinion trembles. 
Judgment shifts, convictions go; 
Life dries up, the heart dissembles — 
Only, what we feel, we know. 
Hath your wisdom known emotions ? 
Will it weep our burning tears ? 
Hath it drunk of our love-potions 
Crowning moments with the weight of years?' 

I am dumb. Alas, too soon all 
Man's grave reasons disappear ! 
Yet, I think, at God's tribunal 
Some large answer you shall hear. 
•But for me, my thoughts are straying 
Where at sunrise, through your vines, 
On these lawns I saw you playing, 
Hanging garlands on your odorous pines; 

When your showering locks en wound you, 
And your heavenly eyes shone througii ; 
When the pine-boughs yielded round you, 
And your brows were starr'd with dew; 
And immortal forms, to meet you, 
Down the statued alleys came. 
And through golden horns, to greet you. 
Blew such music as a God may frame. 



THE NEW SIRENS. 29 

Yes, I muse ! And if the dawning 
Into daylight never grew, 
If the glistering wings of morning 
On the dry noon shook their dew, 
If the fits of joy were longer, 
Or the day were sooner done. 
Or, perhaps, if hope were stronger, 
No weak nursling of an earthly sun . . . 
Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens, 
.Dusk the hall with yew I 



For a bound was set to meetings. 
And the sombre day dragg'd on; 
And the burst of joyful greetings. 
And the joyful dawn, were gone. 
For the eye grows fiU'd with gazing, 
And on raptures follow calms ; 
And those warm locks men were praising, 
Droop' d, unbraided, on your listless arms. 

Storms unsmooth'd your folded valleys, 
And made all your cedars frown; 
Leaves were whirling in the alleys 
Which your lovers wander'd down. 
— Sitting cheerless in your bowers, 
The hands propping the sunk head, 
Do they gall you, the long hours. 
And the hungry thought, that must be fed? 

Is the pleasure that is tasted 
Patient of a long review ? 



30 THE NEW SIRENS. 

Will the fire joy hath wasted, 
Mused on, warm the heart anew ? 
— Or, are those old thoughts returning, 
Guests the dull sense never knew. 
Stars, set deep, yet inly burning, 
Germs, your untrimm'd passion overgrew ? 

Once, like us, you took your station 
Watchers for a purer fire ; 
But you droop'd in expectation, 
And you wearied in desire. 
When the first rose flush was steeping 
All the frore peak's awful crown, 
Shepherds say, they found you sleeping 
In some windless valley, farther down. 

Then you wept, and slowly raising 
Your dozed eyelids, sought again, 
Half in doubt, they say, and gazing 
Sadly back, the seats of men — 
Snatch'd a turbid inspiration 
From some transient earthly sun, 
And proclaim'd your vain ovation 
For those mimic raptures you had won. . 



With a sad, majestic motion. 
With a stately, slow surprise. 
From their earthward-bound devotion 
Lifting up your languid eyes — 
Would you freeze my louder boldness. 
Dumbly smiling as you go, 
One foint frown of distant coldness 
Flitting fast across each marble brow? 



THE NEW SIRENS. 31 

Do I brighten at your sorrow, 
O sweet Pleaders ? — doth my lot 
Find assurance in to-morrow 
Of one joy, which you have not ? 
O, speak once, and shame my sadness ! 
Let this sobbing, Phrygian strain, 
Mock'd and baffled by your gladness, 
Mar the music of your feasts in vain ! 



Scent, and song, and light, and flo wers ! 
Gust on gust, the harsh winds blow — 
Come, bind up those ringlet showers ! 
Roses for that dreaming brow ! 
Come, once more that ancient lightness. 
Glancing feet, and eager eyes ! 
Let your broad lamps flash the brightness 
Which the sorrow-stricken day denies 1 

Through black depths of serried shadows, 
Up cold aisles of buried glade ; 
In the mist of river-meadows 
Where the looming deer are laid ; 
From your dazzled windows streaming, 
From your humming festal room, 
Deep and far, a broken gleaming 
Reels and shivers on the ruffled gloom. 

Where I stand, the grass is glowing ; 
Doubtless you are passing fair ! 
But I hear the north wind blowing, 
And I feel the cold night-air. 



38 THE NEW SIRENS. 

Can I look on your sweet faces, 
And your proud heads backward thrown, 
From this dusk of leaf-strewn places 
With the dumb woods and the night alone? 

Yet, indeed, this flux of guesses — 
Mad delight, and frozen calms — 
Mirth to-day and vine-bound tresses. 
And to-morrow — folded palms ; 
Is this all? this balanced measure? 
Could life run no happier way ? 
Joyous, at the height of pleasure, 
Passive, at the nadir of dismay ? 

But indeed, this proud possession, 
This far-reaching, magic chain, 
Linking in a mad succession 
Fits of joy and fits of pain — 
Have you seen it at the closing ? 
Have you track'd its clouded ways? 
Can your eyes, while fools are dozing. 
Drop, with mine, adown life's latter days? 

When a dreary light is wading 
Through this waste of sunless greens, 
When the flashing lights are fading 
On the peerless cheek of queens. 
When the mean shall no more sorrow, 
And the proudest no more smile ; 
While the dawning of the morrow 
Widens slowly westward all that while? 

Then, when change itself is over. 
When the slow tide sets one way. 
Shall, you find the radiant lover, 
Even by moments, of to-day ? 



THE NEW SIRENS. 33 

The eye wanders, faith is failing — 
O, loose hands, and led it be 1 
Proudly, like a king bewailing, 
O, let fall one tear, and set us freel 

All true speech and large avowal 
Which the jealous soul concedes ; 
All man's heart which brooks bestowal. 
All frank faith which passion breeds — 
These we had, and we gave truly; 
Doubt not, what we had, we gave! 
False we were not,' nor unruly; 
Lodgers in the forest and the cave. 

Long we wander'd with you, feeding 
Our rapt souls on your replies, 
In a wistful silence reading 
All the meaning of your eyes. 
By moss-border'd statues sitting, 
By well-heads, in summer days. 
But we turn, our eyes are flitting — 
See, the white east, and the morning-rays I 

And you too, O worshipp'd Graces, 
Sylvan Gods of this fair shade 1 
Is there doubt on divine faces? 
Are the blessed Gods dismay'd? 
Can men worship the wan features, 
The sunk eyes, the wailing tone. 
Of unsphered, discrowned creatures, 
Souls as little godlike as their own? 

Come, loose hands ! The winged fleetness 
Of immortal feet is gone; 
And your scents have shed their sweetness, 
And your flowers are overblown. 

D 



34 THE VOICE. 

And your jewell'd gauds surrender 
Half their glories to the day; 
Freely did they flash their splendour. 
Freely gave it — but it dies away. 

In the pines the thrush is waking — 
Lo, yon orient hill in flames ! 
Scores of true love knots are breaking 
At divorce which it proclaims. 
When the lamps are paled at morning, 
Heart quits heart and hand quits hand. 
Cold in that unlovely dawning, 
Loveless, rayless, joyless you shall stand! 

Pluck no more red roses, maidens. 
Leave the lilies in their dew — 
Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens, 
Dusk, oh, dusk the hall with yew ! 
— Shall I seek, that I may scorn her, 
Her I loved at eventide ? 
Shall I ask, what faded mourner 
Stands, at daybreak, weeping by my side? 
Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens 1 
Dusk the hall with yew ! 



THE VOICE. 



As the kindling glances. 
Queen-like and clear. 
Which the bright moon lances 
From her tranquil sphere 
At the sleepless waters 
Of a lonely mere, 
On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully, 
Shiver and die. 



THE VOICE. 35 

As the tears of sorrow 
Mothers have shed — 
Prayers that to-morrow 
Shall in vain be sped 
When the flower they flow for 
Lies frozen and dead — 
Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast, 
Bringing no rest. 

Like bright waves that fall 

With a lifelike motion 
On the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean ; 
A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall — 
A gush of sunbeams through a ruin'd hall — 
Strains of glad music at a funeral — 

So sad, and with so wild a start 

To this deep-sober'd heart, 

So anxiously and painfully, 

So drearily and doubtfully. 
And oh, with such intolerable change 

Of thought, such contrast strange, 
O unforgotten voice, thy accents come, 
Like wanderers from the world's extremity, 

Unto their ancient home ! 

In vain, all, all in vain. 

They beat upon mine ear again, 

Those melancholy tones so sweet and still. 

Those lute-like tones which in the bygone year 

Did steal into mine ear — 
Blew such a thrilling summons to my will, 

Yet could not shake it; 
Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill, 

Yet could not break it. 

D 2 



36 THE WORLD'S TRIUMPHS. 



YOUTH'S AGITATIONS. 

When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence, 
From this poor present self which I am now; 
When youth has done its tedious vain expense 
Of passions that for ever ebb and flow ; 

Shall I not joy youth's heats are left behind, 
And breathe more happy in an even clime? — 
Ah no, for then I shall begin to find 
A thousand virtues in this hated timel 

Then I shall wish its agitations back, 
And all its thwarting currents of desire; 
Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack. 
And call this hurrying fever, generous fire; 

And sigh that one thing only has been lent 
To youth and age in common — discontent. 



THE WORLD'S TRIUMPHS. 

So far as I conceive the world's rebuke 
To him address'd who would recast her new, 
Not from herself her fame of strength she took, 
But from their weakness who would work her rue. 

'Behold,' she cries, *so many rages lull'd. 
So mmy fiery spirits quite cool'd down ; 
Look how so many valours, long unduU'd, 
After short commerce with me, fear my frown 1 



STAGIRIUS. 37 

Thou too, when thou against my crimes wouldst cry, 
Let thy foreboded homage check thy tongue!' — 
The world speaks well ; yet might her foe reply : 
' Are wills so weak ? — then let not mine wait long ! 

Hast thou so rare a poison ? — let me be 
Keener to slay thee, lest thou poison mel' 



STAGIRIUS.3 



Thou, who dost dwell alone — 
Thou, who dost know thine own^ 
Thou, to whom all are known 
From the cradle to the grave — 

Save, oh 1 save. 
From the world's temptations, 

From tribulations. 
From that fierce anguish 
Wherein we languish, 
From that torpor deep 
Wherein we lie asleep, 
Heavy as death, cold as the grave, 
Save, oh ! save. 

When the soul, growing clearer, 

Sees God no nearer; 
When the soul, mounting higher, 

To God comes no nigher; 
But the arch-fiend Pride 
Mounts at her side, 
Foiling her high emprise, 
Sealing her eagle eyes. 
And, when she fain would soar, 
Makes idols to adore. 



38 STAGIRIUS. 

Changing the pure emotion 
Of her high devotion, 
To a skin-deep sense 
Of her own eloquence ; 
Strong to deceive, strong to enslave — 
Save, oh! save. 

From the ingrain'd fashion 
Of this earthly nature 
That mars thy creature ; 
From grief that is but passion, 
From mirth that is but feigning, 
From tears that bring no healing, 
From wild and weak complaining, 
Thine old strength revealing, 
Save, oh ! save. 
From doubt, where all is double; 
Where wise men are not strong. 
Where comfort turns to trouble. 
Where just men suffer wrong; 
Where sorrow treads on joy, 
Where sweet things soonest cloy, 
Where faiths are built on dust. 
Where love is half mistrust, 
Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea- 
Oh! set us free. 
O let the false dream fly. 
Where our sick souls do lie 
Tossing continually ! 

O where thy voice doth come 
Let all doubts be dumb, 
Let all words be mild, 
All strifes be reconciled, 
All pains beguiled I 



HUMAN LIFE. 39 

Light bring no blindness. 
Love no unkindneSs, 
Knowledge no ruin, 
Fear no undoing ! 
From the cradle to the grave, 
Save, oh! save. 



HUMAN LIFE. 

What mortal, when he saw, 

Life's voyage done, his heavenly Friend, 

Could ever yet dare tell him fearlessly: 

' I have kept uninfringed my nature's law ; 

The inly-written chart thou gavest me, 

To guide me, I have steer'd by to the end'? 

Ah! let us make no clairn, 

On life's incognisable sea. 

To too exact a steering of our way; 

Let us not fret and fear to miss our aim. 

If some fair coast has lured us to make stay. 

Or some friend hail'd us to keep company. 

Ay ! we would each fain drive 

At random, and not steer by rule. 

Weakness ! and worse, weakness bestow'd in vain 

Winds from our side the unsuiting consort rive. 

We rush by coasts where we had lief remain; 

Man cannot, though he would, live chance's fool. 

No ! as the foaming swath 

Of torn-up water, on the main, 

Falls heavily away with long-drawn roar 



40 TO A GIPSY CHILD 

On either side the black deep-furrovv'd path 
Cut by an onward-labouring vessel's prore, 
And never touches the ship-side again; 

Even so we leave behind, 

As, charter'd by some unknown Powers, 

We stem across the sea of life by night. 

The joys which were not for our use design'd;- 

The friends to whom we had no natural right, 

The homes that were not destined to be ours. 



TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE 
SEA-SHORE, 

DOUGLAS, ISLE OF MAN. 

Who taught this pleading to unpractised eyes? 
Who hid such import in an infant's gloom? 
Who lent thee, child, this meditative guise? 
Who mass'd, round that slight brow, these clouds of 
doom? 

Lo! sails that gleam a moment and are gone; 
The swinging waters, and the cluster'd pier. 
Not idly Earth and Ocean labour on, 
Nor idly do these sea-birds hover near. 

But thou, whom superfluity of joy 
Wafts not from thine own thoughts, nor longings vain, 
Nor weariness, the full-fed soul's annoy — 
Remaining in thy hunger and thy pain; 



BV THE SEA-SHORE. 41 

Thou, drugging pain by patience; half averse 
From thine own mother's breast, that knows not thee ; 
With eyes which sought thine eyes thou didst con- 
verse, 
And that soul-searching vision fell on me. 

Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known: 
Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth. 
Thy sorrow and thy calm.ness are thine own: 
Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth. 

What mood wears like complexion to thy woe? 
His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day, 
Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below ? 
— Ah ! thine was not the shelter, but the fray. 

Some exile's, mindful how the past was glad ? 
Some angel's, in an alien planet born? 
— No exile's dream was ever half so sad, 
Nor any angel's sorrow so forlorn. 

Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weigh 

Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore ; 

But in disdainful silence turn away, 

Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more? 

Or do I wait, to hear some grey-hair'd king 
Unravel all his many-colour'd lore; 
Whose mind hath known all arts of governing, 
Mused much, loved life a little, loathed it more? 

Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope, 
Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give. 
— Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope. 
Foreseen thy harvest, yet proceed'st to live. 



42 TO A GIPSY CHfLD. 

meek anticipant of that sure pain 

Whose sureness grey-hair'd scholars hardly learn f 
What wonder shall time breed, to swell thy strain? 
What heavens, what earth, what suns shalt thou 
discern ? 

Ere the long night, whose stillness brooks no star, 
Match that funereal aspect with her pall, 

1 think, thou wilt have fathom'd life too far, 
Have known too much or else forgotten all. 

The Guide of our dark steps a triple veil 
Betwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps ; 
Hath sown with cloudless passages the tale 
Of grief, and eased us with a thousand sleeps. 

Ah ! not the nectarous poppy lovers use, 
Not daily labour's dull, Lethaean spring, 
Oblivion in lost angels can infuse 
Of the soil'd glory, and the trailing wing ; 

And though thou glean, what strenuous glcxners may. 
In the throng'd fields where winning comes by 

strife ; 
And though the just sun gild, as mortals pray, 
Some reaches of thy storm-vext stream of life ; 

Though that blank sunshine blind thee; though the 

cloud 
That sever'd the world's march and thine, be gone ; 
Though ease dulls grace, and Wisdom be too proud 
To halve a lodging that was all her own — 

Once, ere thy day go down, thou shalt discern. 
Oh once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain! 
Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return. 
And wear this majesty of grief again. 



IN UTRUMQUE PARATUS, 43 

A QUESTION. 

TO FAUSTA. 

Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows 

Like the wave ; 
Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men. 
Love lends life a little grace, 
A few sad smiles ; and then, 
Both are laid in one cold place, 
In the grave. 

Dreams dawn and fly, friends smile and die 

Like spring flowers ; 
Our vaunted life is one long funeral. 
Men dig graves with bitter tears 
For their dead hopes ; and all, 
Mazed with doubts and sick with fears, 
Count the hours. 

We count the hours ! These dreams of ours. 

False and hollow, 

Do we go hence and find they are not dead? 

Joys we dimly apprehend, 

Faces that smiled and fled, 

Hopes born here, and born to end, 

Shall we follow? 



IN UTRUMQUE PARATUS. 

If, in the silent mind of One all-pure. 

At first imagined lay 
The sacred world; and by procession sure 



44 IN' UTRUMQUE PARATUS. 

From those still deeps, in form and colour drest. 
Seasons alternating, and night and day. 
The long-mused thought to north, south, east, and west, 
Took then its all-seen way; 

O waking on a world which thus-wise springs 1 

Whether it needs thee count 
Betwixt thy waking and the birth of things 
Ages or hours — O waking on life's stream I 
By lonely pureness to the all-pure fount 
(Only by this thou canst) the colour'd dream 

Of life remount! 

Thin, thin the pleasant human noises grow, 

And faint the city gleams ; 
Rare the lone pastoral huts — marvel not thou! 
The solemn peaks but to the stars are known, 
But to the stars, and the cold lunar beams; 
Alone the sun arises, and alone 

Spring the great streams. 

But, if the wild unfather'd mass no birth 

In divine seats hath known; 
lit the blank, echoing solitude if Earth, 
Rocking her obscure body to and fro. 
Ceases not from all time to heave and groan, 
Unfruitful oft, and at her happiest throe 

Forms, what she forms, alone; 

O seeming sole to awake, thy sun-bathed head 

Piercing the solemn cloud 
Round thy still dreaming brother-world outspread! 
O man, whom Earth, thy long-vext mother, bare 
Not without joy — so radiant, so endow'd 
(Such happy issue crown'd her painful care) — 
Be not too proud! 



THE WORLD AND THE QUIETIST. 45 

O when most self-exalted most alone, 
Chief dreamer, own thy dream ! 
Thy brother-world stirs at thy feet unknown; 
Who hath a monarch's hath no brother's part — 
Yet doth thine inmost soul with yearning teem. 
Oh, what a spasm shakes the dreamer's heart! 
*/, too, but seem.' 



I 
THE WORLD AND THE QUIETIST. 

TO CRITIAS. 

*Why, when the world's great mind 
Hath finally inclined, 
Why,' you say, Critias, ' be debating still ? 
Why, with these mournful rhymes 
Learn'd in more languid climes, 
Blame our activity 
Who, with such passionate will, 
Are what we mean to be ? * 

Critias, long since, I know 
(For Fate decreed it so), 
Long since the world hath set its heart to live; 
Long since, with credulous zeal 

It turns life's mighty wheel, 
Still doth for labourers send 

Who still their labour give, 
And still expects an end. 

Yet, as the wheel flies round, 
With no ungrateful sound 
Do adverse voices fall on the world's ear, 
Deafen'd by his own stir 
The rugged labourer 



46 THE SECOND BEST. 

Caught not till then a sense 
So glowing and so near 
Of his omnipotence. 

So, when the feast grew loud 
In Susa's palace proud, 
A white-robed slave stole to the Great King's side. 
He spake — the Great King heard ; 
Felt the slow-rolling word 
Swell his attentive soul; 
Breathed deeply as it died, 
And drain' d his mighty bowl. 



THE SECOND BEST. 

Moderate tasks and moderate leisure, 
Quiet living, strict-kept measure 
Both in suffering and in pleasure— 
'Tis for this thy nature yearns. 

But so many books thou readest, 
But so many schemes thou breedest, 
But so many wishes feedest, 

That thy poor head almost turns. 

And (the world's so madly jangled, 
Human things so fast entangled) 
Nature's wish must now be strangled 
For that best which she discerns. 

So it viust be ! yet, while leading 
A strain'd life, while overfeeding, 
Like the rest, his wit with reading, 
No small profit that man earns, 



CONSOLATION. 47 

Who through all he meets can steer him, 
Can reject what cannot clear him, 
Cling to what can truly cheer him; 
Who each day more surely learns 

That an impulse, from the distance 
Of his deepest, best existence, 
To the words, 'Hope, Light, Persistence,' 
Strongly sets and truly burns. 



CONSOLATION. 

Mist clogs the sunshine. 
Smoky dwarf houses 
Hem me round everywhere; 
A vague dejection 
Weighs down my soul. 

Yet, while I languish, 
Everywhere countless 
Prospects unroll themselves. 
And countless beings 
Pass countless moods. 

Far hence, in Asia, 

On the smooth convent-roofs. 

On the gold terraces, 

Of holy Lassa, 

Bright shines the sun. 

Grey time-worn marbles 
Hold the pure Muses ; 
In their cool gallery, 
By yellow Tiber, 
They still look fair. 



48 CONSOLA TION. 

Strange unloved uproar* 
Shrills round their portal; 
Yet not on Helicon 
Kept they more cloudless 
Their noble calm. 

Through sun-proof alleys 
In a lone, sand-hemm'd 
City of Africa, 
A blind, led beggar, 
Age-bow'd, asks alms. 

No bolder robber 
Erst abode ambush'd 
Deep in the sandy waste; 
No clearer eyesight 
Spied prey afar. 

Saharan sand-winds 
Sear'd his keen eyeballs ; 
Spent is the spoil he won. 
For him the present 
Holds only pain. 

Two young, fair lovers, 
Where the warm June- wind, 
Fresh from the summer fields. 
Plays fondly round them. 
Stand, tranced in joy. 

With sweet, join'd voices. 
And with eyes brimming : 
* Ah,' they cry, ' Destiny, 
Prolong the present! 
Time, stand still here!' 
• Written during the siege of Rome by the French, 1S49. 



RESIGNATION. 49 

The prompt stern Goddess 
Shakes her head, frowning ; 
Time gives his hour-glass 
Its due reversal ; 
Their hour is gone. 

With weak indulgence 
Did the just Goddess 
Lengthen their happiness, 
She lengthen'd also 
Distress elsewhere. 

The hour, whose happy 
Unalloy'd moments 
I would eternalise, 
Ten thousand mourners 
Well pleased see end. 

The bleak, stern hour, 
Whose severe moments 
I would annihilate, 
Is pass'd by others 
In warmth, light, joy. 

Time, so complain'd of, 
Who to no one man 
Shows partiality, 
Brings round to all men 
Some undimm'd hours. 



RESIGNATION. 

TO FAUSTA. 

To die he given us, or attaint f 
Fierce work it were, to do again, 

K 



50 RESIGNATION. 

So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, pray'd 

At burning noon ; so warriors said, 

Scarf'd with the cross, who watch'd the miles 

Of dust which wreathed their struggling files 

Down Lydian mountains ; so, when snows 

Round Alpine summits, eddying, rose, 

The Goth, bound Rome-wards ; so the Hun, 

Crouch'd on his saddle, while the sun 

Went lurid down o'er flooded plains 

Through which the groaning Danube strains 

To the drear Euxine; — so pray all, 

Whom labours, self-ordain'd, enthrall; 

Because they to themselves propose 

On this side the all-common close 

A goal which, gain'd, may give repose. 

So pray they; and to stand again 

Where they stood once, to them were pain ; 

Pain to thread back and to renew 

Past straits, and currents long steer'd through. 

But milder natures, and more free — 

Whom an unblamed serenity 

Hath freed from passions, and the state 

Of struggle these necessitate; 

Whom schooling of the stubborn mind 

Hath made, or birth hath found, resign'd — 

These mourn not, that their goings pay 

Obedience to the passing day. 

These clairn not every laughing Hour 

For handmaid to their striding power; 

Each in her turn, with torch uprear'd, 

To await their march ; and when appcar'd, 

Through the cold gloom, with measured race, 

To usher for a destined space 



RESIGNATION. 51 

(Her own sweet errands all forgone) 
The too imperious traveller on. 
These, Fausta, ask not this ; nor thou, 
Time's chafing prisoner, ask it now ! 

We leftj just ten years since, you say, 
That wayside inn we left to-day.* 
Our jovial host, as forth we fare. 
Shouts greeting from his easy chair. 
High on a bank our leader stands, 
Reviews and ranks his motley bands. 
Makes clear our goal to every eye — 
The valley's western boundary. 
A gate swings to ! our tide hath flow'd 
Already from the silent road. 
The valley-pastures, one by one, 
Are threaded, quiet in the sun ; 
And now beyond the rude stone bridge 
Slopes gracious up the western ridge. 
Its woody border, and the last 
Of its dark upland farms is past; 
Cool farms, with open-lying stores, 
Under their burnish'd sycamores — 
All past! and through the trees we glide 
Emerging on the green hill-side. 
There climbing hangs, a far-seen sign, 
Our wavering, many-colour'd line ; 
There winds, upstreaming slowly still 
Over the summit of the hill. 
And now, in front, behold outspread 
Those upper regions we must tread! 
Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells, 
The cheerful silence of the fells. 
Some two hours' march, with serious air. 
Through the deep noontide heats we fare; 
£ 2 



53 RESIGNATION. 

The red-grouse, sprinp^ing at our sound, 

Skims, now and then, the shining ground; 

No life, save his and ours, intrudes 

Upon these breathless solitudes. 

O joy ! again the farms appear. 

Cool shade is there, and rustic cheer; 

There springs the brook will guide us down, 

Bright comrade, to the noisy town. 

Lingering, we follow down; we gain 

The town, the highway, and the plain. 

And many a mile of dusty way, 

Parch'd and road-worn, we made that day; 

But, Fausta, I remember well, 

That as the balmy darkness fell 

We bathed our hands with speechless glee, 

That night, in the wide-glimmering sea. 

Once more we tread this self-same road, 

Fausta, which ten years since we trod; 

Alone we tread it, you and I, 

Ghosts of that boisterous company. 

Here, where the brook shines, near its head. 

In its clear, shallow, turf-fringed bed; 

Here, whence the eye first sees, far down, 

Capp'd with faint smoke, the noisy town; 

Here sit we, and again unroll. 

Though slowly, the familiar whole. 

The solemn wastes of heathy hill 

Sleep in the July sunshine still; 

The self-same shadows now, as then, 

Play through this grassy upland glen; 

The loose dark stones on the green way 

Lie strewn, it seems, where then they lay; 

On this mild bank above the stream, 

(You crush them !) the blue gentians gleam. 



RESIGNATION. e 

Still this wild brook, the rushes cool, 
The sailing foam, the shining pool ! 
These are not changed ; and we, you say, 
Are scarce more changed, in truth, than they. 

The gipsies, whom we met below. 
They, too, have long roam'd to and fro ; 
They ramble, leaving, where they pass, 
Their fragments on the cumber'd grass. 
And often to some kindly place 
Chance guides the migratory race, 
Where, though long wanderings intervene, 
They recognise a former scene. 
The dingy tents are pitch'd; the fires 
Give to the' wind their wavering spires ; 
In dark knots crouch round the wild flame 
Their children, as when first they came; 
They see their shackled beasts again 
Move, browsing, up the grey-wall'd lane. 
Signs are not wanting, which might raise 
The ghost in them of former days — 
Signs are not wanting, if they would ; 
Suggestions to disquietude. 
For them, for all, time's busy touch, 
While it mends little, troubles much. 
Their joints grov>f stiifer — but the year 
Runs his old round of dubious cheer; 
Chilly they grow — yet winds in March, 
Still, sharp as ever, freeze and parch ; 
They must live still — and yet, God knows, 
Crowded and keen the country grows ; 
It seems as if, in their decay, 
The law grew stronger every day. 
So might they reason, so compare, 
Fausta, times past with times that are; 



64 RESIGNATION. 

But no ! — they rubb'd through yesterday 

In their hereditary way, 

And they will rub through, if they can, 

To-morrow on the self-same plan, 

Till death arrive to supersede. 

For them, vicissitude and need. 

The poet, to whose mighty heart 

Heaven doth a quicker pulse impart, 

Subdues that energy to scan 

Not his own course, but that of man. 

Though he move mountains, though his day 

Be pass'd on the proud heights of sway, 

Though he hath loosed a thousand chains, 

Though he hath borne immortal pains, 

Action and suffering though he know — 

He hath not lived, if he lives so. 

He sees, in some great-historied land, 

A ruler of the people stand, 

Sees his strong thought in fiery flood 

Roll through the heaving multitude. 

Exults — yet for no moment's space 

Envies the all-regarded place. 

Beautiful eyes meet his — and he 

Bears to admire uncravingly ; 

They pass — he, mingled with the crowd. 

Is in their far-off triumphs proud. 

From some high station he looks down, 

At sunset, on a populous town ; 

Surveys each happy group, which fleets, 

Toil ended, through the shining streets, 

Each with some errand of its own — 

And does not say : / am alone. 

He sees the gentle stir of birth 

When morning purifies the earth ; 



RESIGNATION. 55 

He leans upon a gate, and sees 

The pastures, and the quiet trees. 

Low, woody hill, with gracious bound. 

Folds the still valley almost round ; 

The cuckoo, loud on some high lawn, 

Is answer'd from the depth of dawn ; 

In the hedge straggling to the stream. 

Pale, dew-drench'd, half-shut roses gleam; 

But, where the farther side slopes down, 

He sees the drowsy new-waked clown 

In his white quaint -embroider'd frock 

Make, whisding, toward his mist-wreathed flock — 

Slowly, behind his heavy tread. 

The wet, flower'd grass heaves up its head. 

Lean'd on his gate, he gazes — tears 

Are in his eyes, and in his ears 

The murmur of a thousand years. 

Before him he sees life unroll, 

A placid and condnuous whole — 

That general life, which does not cease, 

Whose secret is not joy, but peace ; 

That life, whose dumb wish is not miss'd 

If birth proceeds, if things subsist ; 

The life of plants, and stones, and rain. 

The life he craves — if not in vain 

Fate gave, what chance shall not control, 

His sad lucidity of soul. 

You listen — but that wandering smile, 
Fausta, betrays you cold the while ! 
Your eyes pursue the bells of foam 
Wash'd, eddying, from this bank, their home. 
Those gipsies, so your thoughts I scan, 
Are less, the poet more, than man. 



S6 RESIGNATION. 

They feel noty though they move and see; 
Deeper the poet feels ; hut he 
Breathes, when he will, immortal air. 
Where Orpheus and where Homer are. 
In the day's life, whose iron rou7id 
Hems us all in, he is not bound ; 
He leaves his kind, o'er leaps their pen, 
And flees the common life of 7nen. 
He escapes thence, but we abide — 
Not deep the poet sees, hut wide. 

The world in which we live and move 

Outlasts aversion, outlasts love, 

Outlasts each effort, interest, hope, 

Remorse, grief, joy;— and were the scope 

Of these affections wider made, 

Man still would see, and see dismay'd, 

Beyond his passion's widest range, 

Far regions of eternal change. 

Nay, and since death, which wipes out man, 

Finds him with many an unsolved plan, 

With much unknown, and much untried. 

Wonder not dead, and thirst not dried, 

Still gazing on the ever full 

Eternal mundane spectacle — 

This world in which we draw our breath, 

In some sense, Fausta, outlasts death. 

Blame thou not, therefore, him who dares 
Judge vain beforehand human cares; 
Whose natural insight can discern 
What through experience others learn; 
Who needs not love and power, to know 
Love transient, power an unreal show; 



RESIGNATION. 57 

Who treads at ease life's uncheer'd ways — 

Him blame not, Fausta, rather praise! 

Rather thyself for some aim pray 

Nobler than this, to fill the day; 

Rather that heart, which burns in thee, 

Ask, not to amuse, but to set free; 

Be passionate hopes not ill resign'd 

For quiet, and a fearless mind. 

And though fate grudge to thee and me 

The poet's rapt security, 

Yet they, believe me, who await 

No gifts from chance, have conquer'd fate. 

They, winning room to see and hear. 

And to men's business not too near, 

Through clouds of individual strife 

Draw homeward to the general life. 

Like leaves by suns not yet uncurl'd; 

To the wise, foolish; to the world, 

Weak; — yet not weak, I might reply, 

Not foolish, Fausta, in His eye. 

To whom each moment in its race, 

Crowd as we will its neutral space, 

Is but a quiet watershed 

Whence, equally, the seas of life and death are fed 



Enough, we live! — and if a life. 
With large results so little rife. 
Though bearable, seem hardly worth 
This pomp of worlds, this pain of birth; 
Yet, Fausta, the mute turf we tread, 
The solemn hills around us spread. 
This stream which falls incessantly. 
The strange-scrawl'd rocks, the lonely sky, 



RESIGNATIOiV. 

If I might lend their Hfe a voice, 
Seem to bear rather than rejoice. 
And even could the intemperate prayer 
Man iterates, while these forbear, 
For movement, for an ampler sphere, 
Pierce Fate's impenetrable ear; 
Not milder is the general lot 
Because our spirits have forgot. 
In action's dizzying eddy whirl'd, 
The something that infects the world. 



NARRATIVE POEMS. 

SOHRAB AND RUSTUM.^ 

An Episode, 

And the first grey of morning fill'd the east. 

And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. 

But all the Tartar camp along the stream 

Was hush'd, and still the men were plunged in sleep ; 

Sohrab alone, he slept not ; all night long 

He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed ; 

But when the grey dawn stole into his tent. 

He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword, 

And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent, 

And went abroad into the cold wet fog, 

Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent. 

Through the black Tartar tents he pass'd, which 
stood 
Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand 
Of Oxus, where the summer-floods o'erflow 
When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere ; 
Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er that low strand. 
And to a hillock came, a little back 
From the stream's brink — the spot where first a boat, 
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land. 
The men of former times had crown'd the top 
With a clay fort; but that was fall'n, and now 



6o SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 

The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent, 

A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were spread. ' 

And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood 

Upon the thick piled carpets in the tent, 

And found the old man sleeping on his bed 

Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms. 

And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step 

Was dull'd ; for he slept light, an old man's sleep ; 

And he rose quickly on one arm, and said : — 

' Who art thou } for it is not yet clear dawn. 
Speak! is there news, or any night alarm?' 

But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said : — 
* Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa ! it is I. 
The sun is not yet risen, and the foe 
Sleep ; but I sleep not ; all night long I lie 
Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. 
For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek 
Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son, 
In Samarcand, before the army march'd ; 
And I will tell thee what my heart desires. 
Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan first 
I came among the Tartars and bore arms, 
I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown, 
At my boy's years, the courage of a man. 
This too thou know'st, that while I still bear on 
The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world, 
And beat the Persians back on every field, 
I seek one man, one man, and one alone — 
Rustum, my father; who I hoped should greet, 
Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field 
His not unworthy, not inglorious son. 
So I long hoped, but him I never find. 
Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. 
Let the two armies rest to-day; but I 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 61 

Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords 

To- meet me, man to man ; if I prevail, 

Rustum will surely hear it; if I fall — 

Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. 

Dim is the rumour of a common fight, 

Where host meets host, and many names are sunk : 

But of a single combat fame speaks clear/ 

He spoke ; and Peran-Wisa took the hand 
Of the young man in his, and sigh'd, and said : — 

' O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine ! 
Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, 
And share the battle's common chance with us 
Who love thee, but must press for ever first, 
In single fight incurring single risk. 
To find a father thou hast never seen ? 
That were far best, my son, to stay with us 
Unmurmuring ; in our tents, while it is war. 
And when 'tis truce, then in Afrasiab's towns. 
But, if this one desire indeed rules all, 
To seek out Rustum — seek him not through fight ! 
Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, 
O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son ! 
But far hence seek him, for he is not here. 
For now it is not as when I was young, 
When Rustum was in front of every fray : 
But now he keeps apart, and sits at home, 
In Seistan, with Zal, his father old. 
Whether that his own mighty strength at last 
Feels the abhorr'd approaches of old age ; 
Or in some quarrel with the Persian King. 
There go ! — Thou wilt not ? Yet my heart forebodes 
Danger or death awaits thee on this field. 
Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost 
To us; fain therefore send thee hence, in peace 



62 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 

To seek thy father, not seek single fights 
In vain; — but who can keep the lion's cub 
From ravening, and who govern Rustum's son? 
Go, I will grant thee what thy heart desires.' 

So said he, and dropp'd Sohrab's hand, and left 
His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay; 
And o'er his chilly Hmbs his woollen coat 
He pass'd, and tied his sandals on his feet, 
And threw a white cloak round him, and he took 
In his right hand a ruler's staff, no sword ; 
And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap. 
Black, glossy, curl'd, the fleece of Kara-Kul ; 
And raised the curtain of his tent, and call'd 
His herald to his side, and went abroad. 

The sun by this had risen, and clear'd the fog 
From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands. 
And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed 
Into the open plain ; so Haman bade — 
Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled 
The host, and still was in his lusty prime. 
From their black tents, long files of horse, they 

stream'd ; 
As when some grey November morn the files, 
In marching order spread, of long-neck'd cranes 
Stream over Casbin and the southern slopes 
Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries, 
Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, southward bound 
For the warm Persian sea-board — so they stream'd. 
The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard, 
First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long spears ; 
Large men, large steeds; who from Bokhara come 
And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. 
Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns of the south, 
The Tukas, and the lances of Salore, 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 63 

And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands ; 
Light men and on Hght steeds, who only drink 
The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. 
And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came 
From far, and a more doubtful service own'd; 
The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks 
Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards 
And close-set skull-caps ; and those wilder hordes 
Who roam o'er Kipchak and the northern waste, 
Kalmucks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes who stray 
Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, 
Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere — 
These all filed out from camp into the plain. 
And on the other side the Persians form'd ; — 
First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seem'd, 
The Ilyats of Khorassan; and behind. 
The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, 
Marshaird battalions bright in burnish'd steel. 
But Peran-Wisa with his herald came. 
Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front, 
And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks. 
And when Ferood, \vho led the Persians, saw 
That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, 
He took his spear, and to the front he came. 
And check'd his ranks, and fix'd them where they 

stood. 
And the old Tartar came upon the sand 
Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said '.-^ 

' Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear ! 
Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. 
But choose a champion from the Persian lords 
To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man.' 

As, in the country, on a morn in June, 
When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, 



64 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 

A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy — 
So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, 
A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran 
Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved. 

But as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool, 
Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, 
That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk snow ; 
Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they pass 
Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow, 
Choked by the air, and scarce can they themselves 
Slake their parch'd throats with sugar'd mulberries — 
In sirfgle file they move, and stop their breath. 
For fear they should dislodge the o'erhanging 

snows — 
So the pale Persians held their breath with fear. 

And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up 
To counsel ; Gudurz and Zoarrah came, 
And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host 
Second, and was the uncle of the King; 
These came and counsell'd, and then Gudurz 
said : — 
'Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up, 
Yet champion have we none to match this youth. 
He has the wild stag's foot, the Hon's heart. 
But Rustum came last night ; aloof he sits 
And sullen, and has pitch'd his tents apart. 
Him will I seek, and carry to his ear 
The Tartar challenge, and this young man's name; 
Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. 
Stand forth the while, and take their challenge up.' 
So spake he ; and Ferood stood forth and cried : — 
'Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said! 
Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man.' 

He spake ; and Peran-Wisa turn'd, and strode 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 6.? 

Back through the opening squadrons to his tent. 
But through the anxious Persians Qudurz ran, 
And cross'd the camp which lay behind, and reach' d, 
Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents. 
Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay, 
Just pitch'd ; the high pavilion in the midst 
Was Rustum's, and his men lay camp'd around. 
And Gudurz enter'd Rustum's tent, and found 
Rustum ; his morning meal was done, but still 
The table stood before him, charged with food — 
A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread. 
And dark green melons ; and there Rustum sate 
Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, 
And play'd with it; but Gudurz came and stood 
Before him ; and he look'd, and saw him stand, 
And with a cry sprang up and dropp'd the bird, 
And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said: — 

' Welcome ! these eyes could see no better sight. 
What news .? but sit down first, and eat and drink.' 

But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and said: — 
' Not now ! a time will come to eat and drink, 
But not to-day; to-day has other needs. 
The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze ; 
For from the Tartars is a challenge brought 
To pick a champion from the Persian lords 
To fight their champion — and thou know'st his 

name — 
Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. 
O Rustum, like thy might is this young man's ! 
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart ; 
And he is young, and Iran's chiefs are old, 
Or else too weak ; and all eyes turn to thee. 
Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose ! ' 

He spoke ; but Rustum answer'd with a smile : — 



66 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 

' Go to ! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I 
Am older; if the young are weak, the King 
Errs strangely; for the King, for Kai Khosroo, 
Himself is young, and honours younger men, 
And lets the aged moulder to their graves. 
Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young — 
The young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, not I. 
For what care I, though all speak Sohrab's famer 
For would that I myself had such a son, 
And not that one slight helpless girl I have — 
A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, 
And I to tarry with the snow-hair'd Zal, 
My father, whom the robber Afghans vex. 
And clip his borders short, and drive his herds, 
And he has none to guard his weak old age. 
There would I go, and hang my armour up. 
And with my great name fence that weak old 

man, 
And spend the goodly treasures I have got, 
And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's fame, 
And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings. 
And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no 
more.' 

He spoke, and smiled ; and Gudurz made reply : — 
'What then, O Rustum, will men say to this. 
When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks 
Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks, 
Hidest thy face ? Take heed lest men should say : 
Li'h so?ne old miser, Rustum hoards his fame, 
And shuns to peril it with younger nien^ 

And, greatly moved, then Rustum made reply : — 
' O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words ? 
Thou knowest better words than this to say. 
What is one more, one less, obscure or famed, 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 67 

Valiant or craven, young or old, to me? 

Are not they mortal, am not I myself? 

But who for men of nought would do great deeds? 

Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his famel 

But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms; 

Let not men say of Rustum, he ^Yas match'd 

In single fight with any mortal man.' 

He spoke, and frown'd ; and Gudurz turn'd, and 

ran 
Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy — 
Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. 
But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and call'd 
His followers in, and bade them bring his arms, 
And clad himself in steel; the arms he chose 
Were plain, and on his shield was no device, 
Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, 
And, from the fluted spine atop, a plume 
Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair plume. 
So arm'd, he issued forth ; and Ruksh, his horse, 
FoUow'd him like a faithful hound at heel — 
Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the 

earth. 
The horse, whom Rustum on a foray once 
Did in Bokhara by the river find 
A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home, 
And rear'd him; a bright bay, with lofty crest, 
Dight with a saddle-cloth of broider'd green 
Crusted with gold, and on the ground were work'd 
All beasts of chase, all beasts which_ hunters know. 
So foUow'd, Rustum left his tents, and cross'd 
The camp, and to the Persian host appear'd. 
And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts 
Hail'd; but the Tartars knew not who he was. 
And dear as the wet diver to the eyes 

F 2 



68 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 

Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore, 
By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf, 
Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night, 
Plaving made up his tale of precious pearls, 
Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands — 
So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. 

And Rustum to the Persian front advanced, 
And Sohrab arm'd in Haman's tent, and came. 
And as afield the reapers cut a swath 
Down through the middle of a rich man's corn, 
And on each side are squares of standing corn, 
And in the midst a stubble, short and bare — 
So on each side were squares of men, with spears 
Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand. 
And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast 
His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw 
Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came. 

As some rich woman, on a winter's morn, 
Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge 
Who with numb blacken'd fingers makes her fire — 
At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn, 
When the frost flowers the whiten'd window- 
panes — 
And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts 
Of that poor drudge may be ; so Rustum eyed 
The unknown adventurous Youth, who from afar 
Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth 
All the most valiant chiefs; long he perused 
His spirited air, and wonder'd who he was. 
For very young he seem'd, tenderly rear'd; 
Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and 

straight, 
Which in a queen's secluded garden throws 
Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf. 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 69 

By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound — 
So slender Sohrab seem'd, so softly rear'd. 
And a deep pity enter'd Rustum's soul 
As he beheld him coming; and he stood, 
And beckon'd to him with his hand, and said : — 

'O thou young man, the air of Heaven is soft, 
And warm, and pleasant ; but the grave is cold ! 
Heaven's air is better than the cold dead grave. 
Behold me ! I am vast, and clad in iron, 
And tried ; and I have stood on many a field 
Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe — • 
Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. 
O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death? 
Be govern' d ! quit the Tartar host, and come 
To Iran, and be as my son to me, 
And fight beneath my banner till I die ! 
There are no youths in Iran brave as thou.' 

So he spake, mildly ; Sohrab heard his voice, 
The mighty voice of Rustum, and he saw 
His giant figure planted on the sand. 
Sole, like some single tower, which a chief 
Hath builded on the waste in former years 
Against the robbers ; and he saw that head, 
Streak'd with its first grey hairs ; — hope fill'd his soul, 
And he ran forward and embraced his knees. 
And clasp'd his hand within his own, and said : — 

' Oh, by thy father's head ! by thine own soul ! 
Art thou not Rustum ? speak ! art thou not he } ' 

But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth. 
And turn'd away, and spake to his own soul : — 

' Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean 1 
False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. 
For if I now confess this thing he asks, 
A.nd hide it not, but say: Rustum is here! 



70 SOIIRAB AND RUSTUM. 

He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes, 

But he will find some pretext not to fight, 

And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts, 

A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. 

And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab's hall, 

In Samarcand, he will arise and cry: 

" I challenged once, -when the two armies camp'd 

Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords 

To cope with me in single fight; but they 

Shrank, only Rustum dared ; then he and I 

Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away." 

So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud; 

Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me.' 

And then he turn'd, and sternly spake aloud: — 
' Rise ! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus 
Of Rustum ? I am here, whom thou hast call'd 
By challenge forth; make good thy vaunt, or yield! 
Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight? 
Rash boy, men look on Ruslum's face and flee I 
For well I know, that did great Rustum stand 
Before thy face this day, and were reveal'd, 
There would be then no talk of fighting more. 
But being what I am, I tell thee this — 
Do thou record it in thine inmost soul: 
Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt and yield, 
Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds 
Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer-floods, 
Oxus in summer wash them all away/ 

He spoke; and Sohrab answer'd, on his feet: — 
'Art thou so fierce? Thou wilt not fright me so! 
I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 
Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand 
Here on this field, there were no fighting then. 
But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. 



SOUR A B AND RUSTUM. 71 

Begin! thou art more vast, more dread than I, 
And thou art proved, I know, and I am young — - 
But yet success sways with the breath of Heaven. 
And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure 
Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. 
For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, 
Poised on the top of a huge wave of fate, 
Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall. 
And whether it will heave us up to land. 
Or whether it will roll us out to sea. 
Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death, 
We know not, and no search will make us know ; 
Only the event will teach us in its hour.' 

He spoke, and Rustum answer'd not, but hurl'd 
His spear ; down from the shoulder, down it came, 
As on some partridge in the corn a hawk, 
That long has tower'd in the airy clouds. 
Drops like a plummet; Sohrab saw it come. 
And sprang aside, quick as a flash ; the spear 
Hiss'd, and went quivering down into the sand. 
Which it sent flying wide; — then Sohrab threw 
In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield; sharp rang, 
The iron plates rang sharp, but turn'd the spear. 
And Rustum seized his club, which none but he 
Could wield ; an unlopp'd trunk it was, and huge, 
Still rough — like those which men in treeless plains 
To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers, 
Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up 
By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time 
Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack, 
And strewn the channels with torn boughs — so huge 
The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck 
One stroke ; but again Sohrab sprang aside. 
Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came 



73 SOllRAB AND RUSTUM. 

Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's hand. . 
And Rustum follow'd his own blow, and fell 
To his knees, and with his fingers clutch'd the sand; 
And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword, 
And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay- 
Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand ; 
But he look'd on, and smiled, nor bared his sword, 
But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said : — 

' Thou strik'st too hard ! that club of thine will float 
Upon the summer-floods, and not my bones. 
But rise, and be not wroth ! not wroth am I ; 
No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. 
Thou say'st, thou art not Rustum ; be it so ! 
Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul ? 
Boy as I am, I have seen battles too — 
Have waded foremost in their bloody waves. 
And heard their hollow roar of dying men; 
But never was my heart thus touch'd before. 
Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart? 
O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven ! 
Come, plant we here in earih our angry spears, 
And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, 
And pledge each other in red wine, like friends. 
And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds. 
There are enough foes in the Persian Host, 
Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang; 
Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou 
May St fight; fight ihem, when they confront thy spear! 
But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me!' 

He ceased, but while he spake, Rustum had risen, 
And stood erect, trembling with rage ; his club 
He left to lie, but had regain'd his spear, 
Whose fiery point now in his mail'd right-hand 
Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-star, 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 



73 



The baleful sign of fevers; dust had soil'd 
His stately crest, and dimm'd his glittering arms. 
His breast heaved, his lips foam'd, and twice his voice 
Was choked with rage; at last these words broke 
way : — 

* Girl ! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands ! 
Curl'd minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words ! 
Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no more ! 
Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 
With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance; 
But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance 
Of battle, and with me, who make no play 
Of war ; I fight it out, and hand to hand. 
Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine ! 
Remember all thy valour; try thy feints 
And cunning ! all the pity I had is gone ; 
Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts 
With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles.' 

He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts. 
And he too drew his sword ; at once they rush'd 
Together, as two eagles on one prey 
Come rushing down together from the clouds. 
One froai the east, one from the west; their shields 
Dash'd with a clang together, and a din 
Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters 
Make often in the forest's heart at morn, 
Of hewing axes, crashing trees — such blows 
Rustum and Sohrab on each other hail'd. 
And you would say that sun and stars took part 
In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud 
Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark'd the sun 
Over the fighters' heads ; and a wind rose 
Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, 
And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp'd the pair. 



74 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 

In gloom they twain were wrapp'd, and they alone; 

For both the on-looking hosts on either hand 

Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, 

And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. 

But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes 

And labouring breath ; first Rustum struck the shield 

Which Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spear 

Rent the tough plates, but fail'd to reach the skin. 

And Rustum pluck'd it back with angry groan. 

Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helm. 

Nor clove its steel quite through ; but all the crest 

He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume, 

Never till now defiled, sank to the dust; 

And Rustum bow'd his head ; but then the gloom 

Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air. 

And lightnings rent the cloud ; and Ruksh, the horse, 

Who stood at hand, utter'd a dreadful cry; — 

No horse's cry was that, most like the roar 

Of some pain'd desert-lion, who all day 

Has trail'd the hunter's javelin in his side, 

And comes at night to die upon the sand — 

The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear. 

And Oxus curdled as it cross'd his stream. 

Cut Sohrab heard, and quail'd not, but rush'd on, 

And struck again ; and again Rustum bow'd 

His head ; but this time all the blade, like glass, 

Sprang in a thousan 1 shivers on the helm. 

And in the hand the hilt remain'd alone. 

Then Rustum raised his head ; his dreadful eyes 

Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear. 

And shouted : Rustum I — Sohrab heard that shout, 

And shrank amazed : back he recoil'd one step, 

And scann'd with blinking eyes the advancing form; 

And then he stood bcwilder'd, and he dropp'd 



SOIIRAB AND RUSTUM. 75 

His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. 
He reel'd, and staggering back, sank to the ground ; 
And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, 
And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all 
The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair; — 
Saw Rus'-um standing, safe upon his feet, 
And Sobrab, wounded, on the bloody sand. 

Then, with a bitter smile, Rustum began : — 
' Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill 
A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, 
And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. 
Or else that the great Rustum would come down 
Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move 
His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. 
And then that all the Tartar host would praise 
Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, 
To glad thy father in his weak old age. 
Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man I 
Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be 
Than to thy friends, and to thy father old.' 

And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied : — 
' Unknown thou art ; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. 
Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man ! 
No ! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. 
For were I match'd with ten such men as thee, 
And I were that which till to-day I was. 
They should be lying here, I standing there. 
But that belovdd name unnerved my arm- — 
That name, and something, I confess, in thee, 
Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield 
Fall ; and thy spear transfix'd an unarm'd foe. 
And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. 
But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear; 
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death ! 



76 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 

My father, whom I seek through all the world, 
He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!' 

As when some hunter in the spring hath found 
A breeding eagle sitting on her nest. 
Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake, 
And pierced her with an arrow as she rose, 
And follow'd her to find her where she fell 
Far off; — anon her mate comes winging back 
From hunting, and a great way off descries 
His huddling young left sole; at that, he checks 
His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps 
Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 
Chiding his mate back to her nest ; but she 
Lies dying, with the arrow in her side. 
In some far stony gorge out of his ken, 
A heap of fluttering feathers — never more 
Shall the lake glass her, flying over it; 
Never the black and dripping precipices 
Echo her stormy scream as she sails by — 
As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss, 
So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood 
Over his dying son, and knew him not. 

And, with a cold, incredulous voice, he said : — 
'What prate is this of fathers and revenge?. 
The mighty Rustum never had a son.' 

And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied: — 
' Ah yes, he had ! and that lost son am I. 
Surely the news will one day reach his ear, 
Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, 
Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here ; 
And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap 
To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. 
Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son! 
What will that grief, what will that vengeance be? 



SOTIRAB AND RUSTUM. 77 

Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen! 
Yet him I pity not so much, but her, 
My moiher, who in Ader-baijan dwells 
With that old king, her father, who grows grey 
With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. 
Her most I pity, who no more will see 
Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp, 
With spoils and honour, when the war is done. 
But a dark rumour will be bruited up, 
From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear ; 
And then will that defenceless woman learn 
That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more; 
But that in battle with a nameless foe, 
By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain.' 

He spoke ; and as he ceased, he w-ept aloud. 
Thinking of her he left, and his own death. ■ 
He spoke ; but Rustum listen'd, plunged in thought. 
Nor did he yet believe it was his son 
Who spoke, although he call'd back names he knew ; 
For he had had sure tidings that the babe, 
Which was in Ader-baijan born to him, 
Had been a puny girl, no boy at all — 
So that sad mother sent him word, for fear 
Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms. 
And so he deem'd that either Sohrab took, 
By a false boast, the style of Rustum's son ; 
Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. 
So deem'd he ; yet he listen'd, plunged in thought \ 
And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide 
Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore 
At the full moon ; tears gather'd in his eyes ; 
For he remember'd his own early youth, 
And all its bounding rapture ; as, at dawn. 
The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries 



78 SOIIRAB AND RUSTUM. 

A far, bright city, smitten by the sun, 
Through many rolling cloutls — so Rustum saw 
His youth ; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom ; 
And that old king, her father, who loved well 
His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child 
With joy ; and all the pleasant life they led, 
They three, in that long-distant summer-time — 
The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt 
And hound, and morn on those delightful hills 
In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth, 
Of age and looks to be his own dear son, 
Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand, 
Like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe 
Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, 
Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, 
And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, 
On the mown, dying grass — so Sohrab lay, 
Lovely in death, upon the common sand. 
And Rustum gazed en him with grief, and said: — 

' O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son 
Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved 
Yet here thou errcst, Sohrab, or else men 
Have told thee false — thou art not Rustum's son. 
For Rustum had no son ; one child he had — 
But one — a girl ; who with her mother now 
Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us — 
Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, no- war.' 

But Sohrab answer'd him in wrath ; for now 
The anguish of the deep-fix'd spear grew fierce, 
And he desired to draw forth the steel, 
And let the blood flow free, antl so to die — 
But first he would convince his stubborn foe; 
And, rising sternly on one arm, he said : — 

'JMan, who art thou who dost deny my words r 



v/ 



SOIIRAB AND RUSTUM. 79 

Truth sits upon the Hps of dying men, 
And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. 
I tell thee, prick'd upon this arm I bear 
That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, 
That she might prick it on the babe she bore.' 

He spoke ; and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks, 
And his knees totter'd, and he smote his hand 
Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand. 
That the hard iron corslet clank'd aloud ; 
And to his heart he press'd the other hand, ' 
And in a hollow voice he spake, and said : — 

' Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie ! ■ 
If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son.' 

Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed 
His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, 
And show'd a sign in faint vermilion points 
Prick'd ; as a cunning workman, in Pekin, 
Pricks with vermilion some clear procelain vase. 
An emperor's gift — at early morn he paints, 
And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp 
Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands — 
So delicately prick'd the sign appear'd 
Oa Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal. 
It was that griffin, which of old rear'd Zal, 
Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, 
A helpless babe, among the mountain-rocks ; 
Him that kind creature found, and rear'd, and loved — 
Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. 
And Sohrab bared that image on his arm. 
And himself scann'd it long with mournful eyes, 
And then he touch'd it with his hand and said : — 

' How say'st thou ? Is that sign the proper sign 
Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's?' 

He spoke; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood 



8o SOIIRAB AND RUSTUM. 

Speechless; and then he utter'd one sharp cry: 

boy— thy father ! — and his voice choked there. 
And then a dark cloud pass'd before his eyes, 
And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. 
But Sohrab crawl'd to where he lay, and cast 
His arms about his neck, and kiss'd his lips, 
And with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks, 
Trying to call him back to life ; and life 

Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes, 
And they stood wide with horror ; and he seized 
In both his hands the dust which lay around. 
And threw it on his head, and smirch'd his hair, — 
His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms ; 
And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast, 
And his sobs choked him; and he clutch'd his sword, 
To draw^ it, and for ever let life out. 
But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands, 
And with a soothing voice he spake, and said : — 

' Father, forbear ! for I but meet to-day 
The doom which at my birth was written down 
In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's unconscious hand. 
Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, 
When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too, 

1 know it! but fate trod those promptings down 
Under its iron heel ; fate, fate engaged 

The strife, and hurl'd me on my father's spear. 
But let us speak no more of this ! I find 
My father , let me feel that I have found I 
Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take 
My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, 
And wash them with thy tears, and say: My son! 
Quick ! quick ! for number'd are my sands of life, 
And swift; for like the lightning to this field 
I came, and like the wind I go away — 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 8i 

Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind; 
But it was writ in Heaven that this should be.' 

So said he, and his voice released the heart 
Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast 
His arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud, 
And kiss'd him. And awe fell on both the hosts, 
When they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the horse, 
With his head bowing to the ground and mane 
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe 
First to the one then to the other moved 
His head, as if enquiring what their grief 
Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, 
The big warm tears roU'd down, and caked the sand. 
But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said: — 

' Ruksh, now thou grievest ; but, O Ruksh, thy feet 
Should then have rotted on their nimble joints, 
When first they bore thy master to this field!' 

But Sohrab look'd upon the horse and said : — 
*Is this, then, Ruksh? How often, in past days, 
My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed, 
My terrible father's terrible horse ! and said, 
That I should one day find thy lord and thee. 
Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane ! 
O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I; 
For thou hast gone where I shall never go, 
And snuff'd the breezes of my father's home. 
And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, 
And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake 
Of Zirrah ; and the aged Zal himself 
Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, 
Corn in a golden platter soak'd with wine, 
And said : O Ruksh ! bear Rustum well ! — but I 
Have never known my grandsire's furrow'd face, 
Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, 

G 



82 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 

Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream; 
But lodged among my father's foes, and seen 
Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 
Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, 
And the black Toorkmun tents ; and only drunk 
The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, 
Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, 
The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream, 
The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die.' 

Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum bewail'd: — 
' Oh, that its waves were flowing over me 1 
Oh, that I saw its grains of yellow silt 
Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head !' 
/ But, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied: — 
' Desire not that, my father ! thou must live. 
For some are born to do great deeds, and live, 
As some are born to be obscured, and die. 
Do thou the deeds I die too young to do. 
And reap a second glory in thine age ; 
Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. 
But come ! thou seest this great host of men 
Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these! 
Let me intreat for them; what have they done? 
They follow'd me, my hope, my fame, my star. 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 
But me thou must bear hence, not send with them, 
But carry me with thee to Seistan, 
And place me on a bed, and mourn for me. 
Thou, and the snow-hair"d Zal, and all thy friends. 
And ihou must lay me in that lovely earth, 
And heap a stately mound above my bones, 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all. 
That so the passing horseman on the waste 
May see my tomb a great way off, and cry; 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 83 

Sohrab, the mighly RusUinis son, lies there, 
Whom his great father did in ignorance kill! 
And I be not forgotten in my grave.' 

And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied : — 
' Fear not ! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, 
So shall it be ; for I will burn my tents, 
And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me, 
And carry thee away to Seistan, 
And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, 
With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. 
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth. 
And heap a stately mound above thy bones, 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all. 
And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. 
And I will spare thy host ; yea, let them go 1 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace I 
What should I do with slaying any more? 
For would that all whom I have ever slain 
Might be once more alive; my bitterest foes, 
And they who were call'd champions in their time. 
And through whose death I won that fame I have — 
And I were nothing but a common man, 
A poor, mean soldier, and without renown, 
So thou mightest live too, my son, my son I 
Or rather would that I, even I myself, 
INIight now be lying on this bloody sand, 
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine. 
Not thou of mine ! and I might die, not thou ; 
And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan; 
And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine; 
And say : O son, I weep thee not too sore, 
For willingly, I know, thoti niefst thitie end / 
But now in blood and battles was my youth, 
^nd full of blood and battles is my age, 

G 2 



84 SOIIRAB AND RUSTUM. 

And I shall never end this life of blood.' 

Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied : — 
'A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man! 
But thou shalt yet have peace ; only not now, 
Not yet! but thou shalt have it on that day, 
When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship. 
Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo, 
Returning home over the salt blue sea, 
From laying thy dear master in his grave.' 

And Rustum gazed in Sohrab's face, and said : — 
' Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea ! 
Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure,' 

He spoke; and Sohrab smiled on him, and took 
The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased 
His wound's imperious anguish ; but the blood 
Came welling from the open gash, and life 
Flow'd with the stream ; — all down his cold white side 
The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soil'd, 
Like the soil'd tissue of white violets 
Left, freshly gather'd, on their native bank, 
By children whom their nurses call with haste 
Indoors from the sun's eye ; his head droop'd low, 
His limbs grew slack ; motionless, white, he lay — 
White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps, 
Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame, 
Convulsed him back to life, he open'd them. 
And fix'd them feebly on his father's face; 
Till now all strength was ebb'd, and from his limbs 
Unwillingly the spirit fled away, 
Regretting the warm mansion which it left. 
And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world. 

So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead; 
And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloak 
Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 85 

As those black granite pillars, once high-rear'd 
By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear 
His house, now mid their broken flights of steps 
Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side — 
So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. 

And night came down over the solemn waste, 
And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair. 
And darken'd all ; and a cold fog, with night. 
Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, 
As of a great assembly loosed, and fires 
Began to twinkle through the fog ; for now 
Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal; 
The Persians took it on the open sands 
Southward, the Tartars by the river marge ; 
And Rustum and his son were left alone. 

But the majestic river floated on, 
Out of the mist and hum of that low land, 
Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, 
Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian Avaste, 
Under the solitary moon ; — he flow'd 
Right for the polar star, past Orgunjb, 
Brimming, and bright, and large ; then sands begin 
To hem his watery march, and dam his streams. 
And split his currents; that for many a league 
The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along 
Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles — 
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had 
In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere, 
A foil'd circuitous wanderer — till at last 
The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wide 
His luminous home of waters opens, bright 
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars 
"Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 



86 THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA. 



THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA. 



Hussein. 

O MOST just Vizier, send away 
The cloth-merchants, and let them be. 
Them and their dues, this day ! the King 
Is ill at ease, and calls for thee. 

The Vizier. 

O merchants, tarry yet a day 
Here in Bokhara! but at noon, 
To-morrow, come, and ye shall pay 
Each fortieth web of cloth to me, 
As the law is, and go your way. 

O Hussein, lead me to the King ! 
Thou teller of sweet tales, thine owri, 
Ferdousi's, and the others', lead! 
How is it with my lord? 

Hussein. 

Alone, 
Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait, 
O Vizier ! without lying down. 
In the great window of the gate, 
Looking into the Registan, 
Where through the sellers' booths the slaves 
Are this way bringing the dead man. — 
O Vizier, here is the King's door 1 



THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA. 87 

The King, 
O Vizier, I may bury him ? 

The Vizier. 

O King, thou know'st, I have been sick 
These many days, and heard no thing 
(For Allah shut my ears and mind), 
Not even what thou dost, O King ! 
Wherefore, that I may counsel thee, 
Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make haste 
To speak in order what hath chanced. 

The King. 
O Vizier, be it as thou say'stl 

Hussein. 

Three days since, at the time of prayer, 

A certain Moollah, with his robe 

All rent, and dust upon his hair, 

Watch'd my lord's coming forth, and push'd 

The golden mace-bearers aside. 

And fell at the King's feet, and cried: 

'Justice, O King, and on myself! 
On this great sinner, who did break 
The law, and by the law must die 1 
Vengeance, O Kingl* 

But the King spake: 
*What fool is this, that hurts our ears 
With folly ? or what drunken slave ? 
My guards, what, prick him with your spears! 
Prick me the fellow from the path !' 



88 THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA. 

As the King said, so was it done, 
And to the mosque my lord pass'd on. 

But on the morrow, when the King 
Went forth again, the holy book 
Carried before him, as is right. 
And through the square his way he took; 

My man comes running, fleck'd with blood 
From yesterday, and falling down 
Cries out most earnestly : ' O King, 
My lord, O King, do right, I pray 1 

' How canst thou, ere thou hear, discern 
If I speak folly ? but a king, 
Whether a thing be great or small. 
Like Allah, hears and judges all. 

' Wherefore hear thou ! Thou know'st, how fierce 

In these last days the sun hath burn'd; 

That the green water in the tanks 

Is to a putrid puddle turn'd ; 

And the canal, that from the stream 

Of Samarcand is brought this way, 

Wastes, and runs thinner every day. 

' Now I at nightfall had gone forth 
Alone, and in a darksome place 
Under some mulberry-trees I found 
A litlle pool ; and in short space 
With all the water that was there 
I fiU'd my pitcher, and stole home 
Unseen; and having drink to spare, 
I hid the can behind the door. 
And went up on the roof to sleep. 



THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA, 89 

•But in the night, which was with wind 
And burning dust, again I creep 
Down, having fever, for a drink. 

* Now meanwhile had my brethren found 
The water-pitcher, where it stood 
Behind the door upon the ground, 

And call'd my mother; and they all, 
As they were thirsty, and the night 
Most sultry, drain'd the pitcher there ; 
That they sate with it, in my sight. 
Their lips still wet, when I came down. 

* Now mark ! I, being fever'd, sick 
(Most unblest also), at that sight 

Brake forth, and cursed them — dost thou hear ? — 
One was my mother Now, do right!' 

But my lord mused a space, and said: 
' Send him away, Sirs, and make on ! 
It is some madman!' the King said. 
As the King bade, so was it" done. 

The morrow, at the self- same hour, 
In the King's path, behold, the man, 
Not kneeling, sternly fix'd ! he stood 
Right opposite, and thus began. 
Frowning grim down : ' Thou wicked King, 
Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear I 
What, must I howl in the next world, 
Because thou wilt not listen here? 

*What, wilt thou pray, and get thee grace, 
And all grace shall to me be grudged? 
Nay but, I swear, from this thy path 
I will not stir till I be judged!' 



90 THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA. 

Then they who stood about the King 
Drew close together and conferr'd; 
Till that the King stood forth and said : 
' Before the priests thou shalt be heard.' 

But when the Ulemas were met, 
And the thing heard, they doubted not ; 
But sentenced him, as the law is, 
To die by stoning on the spot. 

Now the King charged us secredy: 

* Stoned must he be, the law stands so. 
Yet, if he seek to fly, give way; 
Hinder him not, but let him go.' 

So saying, the King took a stone, 
And cast it softly ; — but the man. 
With a great joy upon his face, 
Kneel'd down, and cried not, neither ran. 

So they, whose lot it was, cast stones. 
That they flew thick and bruised him sore. 
But he praised Allah with loud voice, 
And remain'd kneeling as before. 

My lord had cover'd up his face; 
But when one told him, ' He is dead,' 
Turning him quickly to go in, 

* Bring thou to me his corpse,' he said. 

And truly, while I speak, O King, 

I hear the bearers on the stair; 

Wilt thou they straightway bring him in ? 

— Ho ! enter ye who tarry there 1 



THE SICK KTNG IN BOKHARA. 

The Vizier. 

O King, in this I praise thee not ! 
Now must I call thy grief not wise. 
Is he thy friend, or of thy blood, 
To find such favour in thine eyes? 

Nay, were he thine own mother's son, 
Still, thou art king, and the law stands. 
It were not meet the balance swerved. 
The sword were broken in thy hands. 

But being nothing, as he is, 
Why for no cause make sad thy face?— 
Lo, I am old ! three kings, ere thee, 
Have I seen reigning in this place. 

But who, through all this length of time, 
Could bear the burden of his years, 
If he for -strangers pain'd his heart 
Not less than those who merit tears ? 

Fathers we must have, wife and child. 
And grievous is the grief for these; 
This pain alone, which must be borne, 
Makes the head white, and bows the knees. 

But other loads than this his own 
One man is not well made to bear. 
Besides, to each are his own friends, 
To mourn with him, and shew him care. 

Look, this is but one single place, 
Though it be great; all the earth round, 
If a man bear to have it so, 
Thinofs which might vex him shall be found. 



9a THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA. 

Upon the Russian frontier, where 
The watchers of two armies stand 
Near one another, many a man, 
Seeking a prey unto his hand, 

Hath snatch'd a Utde fair-hair'd slave; 
They snatch also, towards Merve, 
The Shiah dogs, who pasture sheep, 
And up from thence to Orgunjfe. 

And these all, labouring for a lord, 
Eat not the fruit of their own hands; 
Which is the heaviest of all plagues. 
To that man's mind, who understands. 

The kaflfirs also (whom God curse !) 
Vex one another, night and day ; 
There are the lepers, and all sick ; 
There are the poor, who faint alway. 

All these have sorrow, and keep still. 
Whilst other men make cheer, and sing. 
Wilt thou have pity on all these ? 
No, nor on this dead dog, O King! 

The Kwg, 

O Vizier, thou art old, I young! 
Clear in these things I cannot see. 
My head is burning, and a heat 
Is in my skin which angers me. 

But hear ye this, ye sons of men ! 
They that bear rule, and are obey'd, 
Unto a rule more strong than theirs 
Are in their turn obedient made. 



THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA. 93 

In vain therefore, with " wistful eyes 
Gazing up hither, the poor man. 
Who loiters by the high-heap'd booths, 
Below there, in the Registan, 

Says : ' IJappy he, who lodges there I 
With silken raiment, store of rice. 
And for this drought, all kinds of fruits, 
Grape-syrup, squares of colour'd ice, 

'With cherries serv'd in drifts of snow.* 
In vain hath a king power to build 
Houses, arcades, enamell'd mosques ; 
And to make orchard-closes, fill'd 

With curious fruit-trees brought from far; 
With cisterns for the winter-rain. 
And, in the desert, spacious inns 
In divers places — if that pain 

Is not more lightened, which he feels. 
If his will be not satisfied ; 
And that it be not, from all. time 
The law is planted, to abide. 

Thou wast a sinner, thou poor man ! 
Thou wast athirst; and didst not see, 
That, though we take what we desire, 
We must not snatch it eagerly. 

And I have meat and drink at will. 
And rooms of treasures, not a few. 
But I am sick, nor heed I these; 
And what I would, I cannot do. 



Q4 BALDER DEAD. 

Even the great honour which I have, 
When I am dead, will soon grow still; 
So have I neither joy, nor fame. 
But what I can do, that I will. 

I have a fretted brick-work tomb 
Upon a hill on the right hand. 
Hard by a close of apricots, 
Upon the road of Samarcand; 

Thither, O Vizier, will I bear 
This man my pity could not save. 
And, plucking up the marble flags, 
There lay his body in my grave. 

Bring water, nard, and linen-rolls ! 
Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb ! 
Then say : * He was not wholly vile, 
Because a king shall bury him.' 



BALDER DEAD.« 

1. SENDING. 

So on the floor lay Balder dead; and round 
Lay thickly strewn swords, axes, darts, and spears, 
Which all the Gods in sport had idly thrown 
At Balder, whom no weapon pierced or clove ; 
But in his breast stood fixt the fatal bough 
Of mistletoe, which Lok the Accuser gave 
To Hoder, and unwitting Hoder threw — 
'Gainst that alone had Balder's life no charm. 



BALDER DEAD. 95 

And all the Gods and all the Heroes came, 
And stood round Balder on the bloody floor, 
Weeping and wailing; and Valhalla rang 
Up to its golden roof with sobs and cries ; 
And on the tables stood the untasted meats, 
And in the horns and gold-rimm'd sculls the wine. 
And now would night have fall'n, and found them yet 
Wailing ; but otherwise was Odin's will. 
And thus the father of the ages spake : — 

'Enough of tears, ye Gods, enough of wail! 
Not to lament in was Valhalla made. 
If any here might weep for Balder's death, 
I most might weep, his father ; such a son 
I lose to-day, so bright, so loved a God. 
But he has met that doom, which long ago 
The Nornies, when his mother bare him, spun, 
And fate set seal, that so his end must be. 
Balder has met his death, and ye survive — 
Weep him an hour, but what can grief avail? 
For ye yourselves, ye Gods, shall meet your doom, 
All ye who hear me, and inhabit Heaven, 
And I too, Odin too, the Lord of all. 
But ours we shall not meet, when that day comes, 
With women's tears and weak complaining cries — 
Why should we meet another's portion so? 
Rather it fits you, having wept your hour. 
With cold dry eyes, and hearts composed and stern, 
To live, as erst, your daily life in Heaven. 
By me shall vengeance on the murderer Lok, 
The foe, the accuser, whom, though Gods, we hate. 
Be strictly cared for, in the appointed day. 
Meanwhile, to-morrow, when the morning dawns, 
Bring wood to the seashore to Balder's ship. 
And on the deck build high a funeral -pile. 



96 BALDER DEAD. 

And on the top lay Balder's corpse, and put 
Fire to the wood, and send him out to sea 
To burn ; for that is what the dead desire.' 

So spake the King of Gods, and straightway rose. 
And mounted his horse Sleipner, whom he rode; 
And from the hall of Heaven he rode away 
To Lidskialf, and sate upon his throne. 
The mount, from whence his eye surveys the world. 
And far from Heaven he turn'd his shining orbs 
To look on Midgard, and the earth, and men. 
And on the conjuring Lapps he bent his gaze 
Whom antler'd reindeer pull over the snow; 
And on the Finns, the gentlest of mankind, 
Fair men, who live in holes under the ground; 
Nor did he look once more to Ida's plain. 
Nor toward Valhalla, and the sorrowing Gods ; 
For well he knew the Gods would heed his word, 
And cease to mourn, and think of Balder's pyre. 

But in Valhalla all the Gods went back 
From around Balder, all the Heroes went; 
And left his body stretched upon the floor. 
And on their golden chairs they sate again, 
Beside the tables, in the hall of Heaven ; 
And before each the cooks who served them placed 
New messes of the boar Serimner's flesfr, 
And the Valkyries crown'd their horns with mead. 
So they, with pent-up hearts and tearless eyes, 
Wailing no more, in silence ate and drank, 
While twilight fell, and sacred night came on. 

But the blind Hoder left the feasting Gods 
In Odin's hall, and went through Asgard streets, 
And past the haven where the Gods have moor'd 
Their ships, and through the gate, beyond the wall ; 
Though sightless, yet his own mind led the God. 



BALDER DEAD. 97 

Down to the margin of the roaring sea 

He came, and sadly went along the sand, 

Between the waves and black o'erhanging cliffs 

Where in and out the screaming seafowl fly ; 

Until he came to where a gully breaks 

Through the cliff-wall, and a fresh stream runs down 

From the high moors behind, and meets the sea. 

There, in the glen, Fensaler stands, the house 

Of Frea, honour'd mother of the Gods, 

And shews its lighted windows to the main. 

There he went up, and pass'd the open doors; 

And in the hall he found those women old, 

The prophetesses, who by rite eterne 

On Frea's hearth feed high the sacred fire 

Both night and day ; and by the inner wall 

Upon her golden chair the Mother sate. 

With folded hands, revolving things to come. 

To her drew Hoder near, and spake, and said : — 

' IModier, a child of bale thou bar'st in me 1 
For, first, thou barest me with blinded eyes. 
Sightless and helpless, wandering weak in Heaven ; 
And, after that, of ignorant witless mind 
Thou barest me, and unforeseeing soul; 
That I alone must take the branch from Lok, 
The foe, the accuser, whom, though Gods, we hate, 
And cast it at the dear-loved Balder's breast 
At whom the Gods in sport their weapons threw — 
'Gainst that alone had Balder's life no charm. 
Now therefore what to attempt, or whither fly, 
For who will bear my hateful sight in Heaven? 
Can I, O mother, bring them Balder back.? 
Or — for thou know'st the fates, and things allow 'd — 
Can I with Hela's power a compact strike. 
And make exchange, and give my life for his?' 

H 



98 BALDER DEAD. 

He spoke ; the mother of the Gods replied : — - 
' Hoder, ill-fated, child of bale, my son, 
Sightless in soul and eye, what words are these ? 
That one, long portion'd with his doom of death, 
Should change his lot, and fill another's life, 
And Hela yield to this, and let him go ! 
On Balder Death hath laid her hand, not thee; 
Nor doth she count this life a price for that. 
For many Gods in Heaven, not thou alone. 
Would freely die to purchase Balder back. 
And wend themselves to Hela's gloomy realm. 
For not so gladsome is that life in Heaven 
Which Gods and heroes lead, in feast and fray, 
Waiting the darkness of the final times. 
That one should grudge its loss for Balder's sake, 
Balder their joy, so bright, so loved a God. 
But fate withstands, and laws forbid this way. 
Yet in my secret mind one way I know, 
Nor do I judge if it shall win or fail; 
But much must still be tried, which shall but fail.' 

And the blind Hoder answer'd her, and said : — 
'What way is this, O mother, that thou shew'st? 
Is it a matter which a God might try?' 

And straight the mother of the Gods replied: — 
'There is a way which leads to Hela's realm, 
Untrodden, lonely, far from light and Heaven. 
Who goes that way must take no other horse 
To ride, but Sleipner, Odin's horse, alone. 
Nor must he choose that common path of Gods 
Which every day they come and go in Heaven, 
O'er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall's watch, 
Past IMidgard fortress, down to earth and men. 
But he must tread a dark untravcU'd road 
Which branches from the north 'of Heaven, and ride 



BALDER DEAD. 



99 



Nine days, nine nights, toward the northern ice, 
Through valleys deep-engulph'd, with roaring streams. 
And he will reach on the tenth morn a bridge 
Which spans with golden arches Giall's stream, 
Not Bifrost, but that bridge a damsel keeps, 
Who tells the passing troops of dead their way 
To the low shore of ghosts, and Hela's realm. 
And she will bid him northward steer his course. 
Then he will journey through no lighted land. 
Nor see the sun arise, nor see it set; 
But he must ever watch the northern bear, 
Who from her frozen height with jealous eye 
Confronts the dog and hunter in the south, 
And is alone not dipt in Ocean's stream. 
And straight he will come down to Ocean's strand — 
Ocean, whose watery ring enfolds the world, 
And on whose marge the ancient giants dwell. 
But he will reach its unknown northern shore, 
Far, far beyond the outmost giant's home, 
At the chink'd fields of ice, the waste of snow. 
And he must fare across the dismal ice 
Northward, until he meets a stretching wall 
Barring his way, and in the wall a grate. 
But then he must dismount, and on the ice 
Tighten the girths of Sleipner, Odin's horse, 
And make him leap the grate, and come within. 
And he will see stretch round him Hela's realm, 
The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead. 
And hear the roaring of the streams of Hell, 
And he will see the feeble, shadowy tribes. 
And Balder sitting crown'd, and Hela's throne. 
Then must he not regard the wailful ghosts 
Who all will flit, like eddying leaves, around; 
But he must straight accost their solemn queen, 

H 2 



loo BALDER DEAD. 

And pay her homage, and entreat with prayers, 
Telling her all that grief they have in Heaven 
For Balder, whom she holds by right below. 
If haply he may melt her heart with words, 
And make her yield, and give him Balder back.' 

She spoke ; but Hoder answer'd her and said ;^ 
' Mother, a dreadful way is this thou shew'st. 
No journey for a sighdess God to go !' 

And straight the mother of the Gods replied : — 
' Therefore thyself thou shalt not go, my son. 
But he whom first thou meetest when thou com'st 
To Asgard, and declar'st this hidden way. 
Shall go ; and I will be his guide unseen.' 

She spoke, and on her face let fall her veil, 
And bow'd her head, and sate with folded hands. 
But at the central hearth those women old, 
Who while the Mother spake had ceased their toil, 
Began again to heap the sacred fire. 
And Hoder turn'd, and left his mother's house, 
Fensaler, whose Ht windows look to sea; 
And came again down to the roaring waves, 
And back along the beach to Asgard went, 
Pondering on that which Frea said should be. 

But night came down, and darken'd Asgard streets. 
Then from their loathdd feast the Gods arose, 
And lighted torches, and took up the corpse 
Of Balder from the floor of Odin's hall, 
And laid it on a bier, and bare him home 
Through the fast-darkening streets to his own house, 
Breidablik, on whose columns Balder graved 
The enchantments that recall the dead to Ufe. 
For wise he was, and many curious arts. 
Postures of runes, and healing herbs he knew; 
Unhappy ! but that art he did not know, 



BALDER DEAD. loi 

To keep his own life safe, and see the sun. 
There to his hall the Gods brought Balder home, 
And each bespake him as he laid him down : — 

' Would that ourselves, O Balder, we were borne 
Home to our halls, with torchlight, by our kin. 
So thou might'st hve, and still delight the Gods ! ' 

They spake ; and each went home to his own house. 
But there was one, the first of all the Gods 
For speed, and Hermod was his name in Heaven ; 
Most fleet he was, but now he went the last. 
Heavy in heart for Balder, to his house 
Which he in Asgard built him, there to dwell. 
Against the harbour, by the city-wall. 
Him the blind Hoder met, as he came up 
From the sea cityward, and knew his step ; 
Nor yet could Hermod see his brother's face. 
For it grew dark; but Hoder touch'd his arm. 
And as a spray of honeysuckle flowers 
Brushes across a tired traveller's face 
Who shuffles through the deep dew-moisten'd dust. 
On a May evening, in the darken'd lanes, 
And starts him, that he thinks a' ghost went by — 
So Hoder brush'd by Hermod's side, and said : — 

' Take Sleipner, Hermod, and set forth with dawn 
To Hela's kingdom, to ask Balder back ; 
And they shall be thy guides, who have the power.' 

He spake, and brush'd soft by, and disappear'd. 
And Hermod gazed into the night, and said: — 

' Who is it utters through the dark his best 
So quickly, and will wait for no reply .? 
The voice was like the unhappy Hoder's voice. 
Howbeit 1 will see, and do his best; 
For there rang note divine in that command.' 

So speaking, the fleet-footed Hermod came 



I02 BALDER DEAD. 

Home, and lay down to sleep in his own house ; 
And all the Gods lay down in their own homes. 
And Hoder too came home, distraught with grief, 
Loathing to meet, at dawn, the other Gods ; 
And he went in, and shut the door, and fixt 
His sword upright, and fell on it, and died. 

But from the hill of Lidskialf Odin rose. 
The throne, from which his eye surveys the world ; 
And mounted Sleipner, and in darkness rode 
To Asgard. And the stars came out in heaven, 
High over Asgard, to light home the King. 
But fiercely Odin gallop'd, moved in heart; 
And swift to Asgard, to the gate, he came. 
And terribly the hoofs of Sleipner rang 
Along the flinty floor of Asgard streets, 
And the Gods trembled on their golden beds 
Hearing the wrathful Father coming home — 
For dread, for like a whirlwind, Odin came. 
And to Valhalla's gate he rode, and left 
Sleipner; and Sleipner went to his own stall; 
And in Valhalla Odin laid him down. 

But in Breidablik Nanna, Balder's wife. 
Came with the Goddesses who wrought her will. 
And stood by Balder lying on his bier. 
And at his head and feet she station'd Scalds 
Who in their lives were famous for their song; 
These o'er the corpse intoned a plaintive strain, 
A dirge — and Nanna and her train replied. 
And far into the night they wail'd their dirge; 
But when their souls were satisfied w^ith wail, 
They went, and laid them down, and Nanna went 
Into an upper chamber, and lay dow'n ; 
And Frea seal'd her tired lids with sleep. 

And 'twas when night is bordering hard on dawn, 



BALDER DEAD. 103 

When air is chilliest, and the stars sunk low; 

Then Balder's spirit through the gloom drew near, 

In garb, in form, in feature as he was, 

Alive ; and still the rays were round his head 

Which were his glorious mark in Heaven; he stood 

Over against the curtain of the bed. 

And gazed on Nanna as she slept, and spake : — 

' Poor lamb, thou sleepest, and forgett'st thy woe ! 
Tears stand upon the lashes of thine eyes, 
Tears wet the pillow by thy cheek ; but thou, 
Like a young child, hast cried thyself to sleep. 
Sleep on ; I watch thee, and am here to aid. 
Alive I kept not far from thee, dear soul ! 
Neither do I neglect thee now, though dead. 
For with to-morrow's dawn the Gods prepare 
To gather wood, and build a funeral-pile 
Upon my ship, and burn my corpse with fire, 
That sad, sole honour of the dead ; and thee 
They think to burn, and all my choicest wealth, 
With me, for thus ordains the common rite. 
But it shall not be so ; but mild, but swift, 
But painless shall a stroke from Frea come. 
To cut thy thread of life, and free thy soul, 
And they shall burn thy corpse with mine, not thee. 
And well I know that by no stroke of death. 
Tardy or swift, wouldst thou be loath to die, 
So it restored thee, Nanna, to my side, 
Whom thou so well hast loved ; but. I can smoothe 
Thy way, and this, at least, my prayers avail. 
Yes, and I fain would altogether ward 
Death from thy head, and with the Gods in Heaven 
Prolong thy life, though not by thee desired — 
But right bars this, not only thy desire. 
Yet dreary, Nanna, is the life they lead 



I04 BALDER DEAD. 

In that dim world, in Hela's mouldering realm; 
And doleful are the ghosts, the troops of dead, 
Whom Hela with austere control presides. 
For of the race of Gods is no one there, 
Save me alone, and Hela, solemn queen ; 
For all the nobler souls of mortal men 
On battle-field have met their death, and now 
Feast in Valhalla, in my father's hall ; 
Only the inglorious sort are there below, 
The old, the cowards, and the weak are there — 
Men s])ent by sickness, or obscure decay. 
But even there, O Nanna, we might find 
Some solace in each other's look and speech, 
Wandering together through that gloomy world, 
And talking of the life we led in Heaven, 
While we yet lived, among the other Gods.' 

He spake, and straight his lineaments began 
To fade ; and Nanna in her sleep stretch'd out 
Her arms towards him with a cry— but he 
Mournfully shook his head, and disappear'd. 
And as the woodman sees a little smoke 
Hang in the air, afiield, and disappear, 
So Balder faded in the night away. 
And Nanna on her bed sank back ; but then 
Frea, the mother of the Gods, with stroke 
Painless and swift, set free her airy soul. 
Which took, on Balder's track, the way below ; 
And instantly the sacred morn appear'd. 



2. JOURNEY TO THE DEAD. 

Forth from the east, up the ascent of Heaven, 
Day drove his courser with the shining mane; 



BALDER DEAD. 105 

And in Valhalla, from his gable-perch, 
The golden-crested cock began to crow. 
Hereafter, in the blackest dead of night. 
With shrill and dismal cries that bird shall crow, 
Warning the Gods that foes draw nigh to Heaven ; 
But now he crew at dawn, a cheerful note, 
To wake the Gods and Heroes to their tasks. 
And all the Gods, and all the Heroes, woke. 
And from their beds the Heroes rose, and donn'd 
Their arms, and led their horses from the stall, 
And mounted them, and in Valhalla's court 
Were ranged ; and then the daily fray began. 
And all day long they there are hack'd and hewn 
'Mid dust, and groans, and limbs lopp'd off, and 

blood ; 
But all at night return to Odin's hall 
Woundless and fresh; such lot is theirs in Heaven. 
And the Valkyries on their steeds went forth 
Toward earth and fights of men ; and at their side 
Skulda, the youngest of the Nornies, rode; 
And over Bifrost, where is Heimdall's watch. 
Past Midgard fortress, down to earth they came ; 
There through some battle-field, where men fall fast, 
Their horses fetlock-deep in blood, they ride. 
And pick the bravest warriors out for death, 
Whom they bring back with them at night to Heaven, 
To glad the Gods, and feast in Odin's hall. 

But the Gods went not now, as otherwhile, 
Into the tilt-yard, where the Heroes fought. 
To feast their eyes with looking on the fray; 
Nor did they to their judgment-place repair 
By the ash Igdrasil, in Ida's plain, 
Where they hold council, and give laws for men. 
"But they went, Odin first, the rest behind, 



io6 BALDER DEAD. 

To the hall Gladheim, which is built of gold; 
Where are in circle ranged twelve golden chairs, 
And in the midst one higher, Odin's throne. 
There all the Gods in silence sate them down; 
And thus the Father of the ages spake : — 

'Go quickly, Gods, bring wood to the seashore, 
With all, which it beseems the dead to have, 
And make a funeral-pile on Balder's ship; 
On the tw£lfih day the Gods shall burn his corpse. 
But Hermod, thou, take Sleipner, and ride down 
To Hela's kingdom, to ask Balder back/ 

So said he ; and the Gods arose, and took 
Axes and ropes, and at their head came Thor, 
Shouldering his hammer, which the giants know. 
Forth wended they, and drave their steeds before. 
And up the dewy mountain-tracks they fared 
To the dark forests, in the early dawn ; 
And up and down, and side and slant they roam'd. 
And from the glens all day an echo came 
Of crashing falls; for with his hammer Thor 
Smote 'mid the rocks the lichen-bearded pines. 
And burst their roots, while to their tops the Gods 
Made fast the woven ropes, and haled them down, 
And lopp'd their boughs, and clove them on the swartl, 
And bound the logs behind their steeds to draw. 
And drave them homeward; and the snorting steeds 
Went straining through the crackling brushwood down, 
And by the darkling forest-paths the Gods 
Follow'd, and on their shoulders carried boughs. 
And they came out upon the plain, and pass'd 
Asgard, and led their horses to the beach, 
And loosed them of their loads on the seashore, 
And ranged the wood in stacks by Balder's ship ; 
And every God went home to his own house. 



BALDER DEAD. 107 

But when the Gods were to the forest gone, 
Hermod led Sleipner from Valhalla forth 
And saddled him ; before that, Sleipner brook'd 
No meaner hand than Odin's on his mane, 
On his broad back no lesser rider bore ; 
Yet docile now he stood at Hermod's side. 
Arching his neck, and glad to be bestrode, 
Knowing the God they went to seek, how dear. 
But Hermod mounted him, and sadly fared 
In silence up the dark untravell'd road 
Which branches from the north of Heaven, and went 
All day; and daylight waned, and night came on. 
And all that night he rode, and journey'd so, 
Nine days, nine nights, toward the northern ice, 
Through valleys deep-engulph'd, by roaring streams. 
And on the tenth morn he beheld the bridge 
Which spans with golden arches Giall's stream, 
And on the bridge a damsel watching arm'd. 
In the strait passage, at the further end. 
Where the road issues between walling rocks. 
Scant space that warder left for passers by; — 
But as when cowherds in October drive 
Their kine across a snowy mountain-pass 
To winter-pasture on the southern side. 
And on the ridge a waggon chokes the way, 
Wedged in the snow; then painfully the hinds 
With goad and shouting urge their cattle past. 
Plunging through deep untrodden banks of snow 
To right and left, and warm steam fills the air — 
So on the bridge that damsel block' d the way. 
And question'd Hermod as he came, and said : — ■ 

'Who art thou on thy black and fiery horse 
Under whose hoofs the bridge o'er Giall's stream 
Rumbles and shakes ? Tell me thy race and home. 



io8 BALDER DEAD. 

But yestermorn, five troops of dead pass'd by, 
Bound on their way below to Hela's realm, 
Nor shook the bridge so much as thou alone. 
And thou hast flesh and colour on thy cheeks, 
Like men who live, and draw the vital air ; 
Nor look'st thou pale and wan, like men deceased, 
Souls bound below, my daily passers here.' 

And the fleet-footed Hermod answer'd her: — 
'O damsel, Hermod am I call'd, the son 
Of Odin; and my high-roof 'd house is built 
Far hence, in Asgard, in the city of Gods; 
And Sleipner, Odin's horse, is this I ride. 
And I come, sent this road on Balder's track; 
Say then, if he hath cross'd thy bridge or no?' 

He spake ; the warder of the bridge replied : — 
* O Hermod, rarely do the feet of Gods 
Or of the horses of the Gods resound 
Upon my bridge; and, when they cross, I know. 
Balder hath gone this way, and ta'en the road 
Below there, to the north, toward Hela's realm. 
From here the cold white mist can be discern'd, 
Not lit with sun, but through the darksome air 
By the dim vapour-blotted light of stars, 
Which hangs over the ice where lies the road. 
For in that ice are lost those northern streams, 
Freezing and ridging in their onward flow, 
Which from the fountain of Vergelmer run, 
The spring that bubbles up by Hela's throne. 
There are the joyless seats, the haunt of ghosts, 
Hela's pale swarms ; and there was Balder bound. 
Ride on ! pass free ! but he by this is there.' 

She spake, and stepp'd aside, and left him room. 
And Hermod greeted her, and gallop'd by 
Across the bridge; then she took post again. 



BALDER DEAD. 109 

But northward Hermod rode, the way below; 
And o'er a darksome tract, which knows no sun, 
But by the blotted light of stars, he fared. 
And he came down to Ocean's northern strand. 
At the drear ice, beyond the giants' home. 
Thence on he journey'd o'er the fields of ice 
Still north, until he met a stretching wall 
Barring his way, and in the wall a grate. 
Then he dismounted, and drew tight the girths, 
On the smooth ice, of Sleipner, Odin's horse. 
And made him leap the grate, and came within. 
And he beheld spread round him Hela's realm, 
The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead, 
And heard the thunder of the streams of Hell. 
For near the wall the river of Roaring flows, 
Outmost ; the others near the centre run — 
The Storm, the Abyss, the Howling, and the Pain ; 
These flow by Hela's throne, and near their spring. 
And from the dark flock'd up the shadowy tribes ; — 
And as the swallows crowd the bulrush-beds 
Of some clear river, issuing from a lake. 
On autumn-days, before they cross the sea; 
And to each bulrush-crest a swallow hangs 
Swinging, and others skim the river-streams. 
And their quick twittering fills the banks and shores — • 
So around Hermod swarm'd the twitterinjj ghosts. 
Women, and infants, and young rrien who died 
Too soon for fame, with white ungraven shields ; 
And old men, known to glory, but their star 
Betray'd them, and of wasting age they died, 
Not wounds ; yet, dying, they their armour wore, 
And now have chief regard in Hela's realm. 
Behind flock'd wrangling up a piteous crew, 
Greeted of none, disfeatured and forlorn — 



no BALDER DEAD. 

Cowards, who were in sloughs interr'd alive; 
And round them still the wattled hurdles hung 
Wherewith they stamp'd them down, and trod them 

deep, 
To hide their shameful memory from men. 
But all he pass'd unhail'd, and reach'd the throne 
Of Hela, and saw, near it. Balder crown'd, 
And Hela set thereon, with countenance stern; 
And thus bespake him first the solemn queen : — 

'Unhappy, how hast thou endured to leave 
The light, and journey to the cheerless land 
Where idly flit about the feeble shades? 
How didst thou cross the bridge o'er Giall's stream, 
Being alive, and come to Ocean's shore ? 
Or how o'erleap the grate that bars the wall?' 

She spake : but down off Sleipner Hermod sprang, 
And fell before her feet, and clasp'd her knees; 
And spake, and mild entreated her, and said : — 

* O Hela, wherefore should the Gods declare 
Their errands to each other, or the ways 
They go ? the errand and the way is known. 
Thou know'st, thou know'st, what grief we have in 

Heaven 
For Balder, whom thou hold'st by right below. 
Restore him ! for what part fulfils he here ? 
Shall he shed cheer over the cheerless seats, 
And touch the apathetic ghosts with joy ? — 
Not for such end, O queen, thou hold'st thy realm. 
For Heaven was Balder born, the city of Gods 
And Heroes, where tliey live in light and joy. 
Thither restore him, for his place is there !' 

He spoke ; and grave replied the solemn queen : — 
* Hermod, for he thou art, thou son of Heaven 1 
A strange unlikely errand, sure, is thine. 



BALDER DEAD. in 

Do the Gods send to me to make them blest? 

Small bliss my race hath of the Gods obtain'd. 

Three mighty children to my father Lok 

Did Angerbode, the giantess, bring forth — 

Fenris the wolf, the serpent huge, and me. 

Of these the serpent in the sea ye cast, 

Who since in your despite hath wax'd amain. 

And now with gleaming ring enfolds the world ; 

Me on this cheerless nether world ye "threw. 

And gave me nine unlighted realms to rule ; 

While on his island in the lake afar, 

Made fast to the bored crag, by wile not strength 

Subdued, with limber chains lives Fenris bound. 

Lok still subsists in Heaven, our father wise. 

Your mate, though loathed, and feasts in Odin's hall ; 

But him too foes* await, and netted snares, 

And in a cave a bed of needle-rocks. 

And o'er his visage serpents dropping gall. 

Yet he shall one day rise, and burst his bonds. 

And with himself set us his offspring free. 

When he guides Muspel's children to their bourne. 

Till then in peril or in pain we live. 

Wrought by the Gods — and ask the Gods our aid? 

Howbeit, we abide our day; till then, 

We do not as some feebler haters do — 

Seek to afflict our foes with petty pangs, 

Helpless to better us, or ruin them. 

Come then! if Balder was so dear beloved, 

And this is true, and such a loss is Heaven's — 

Hear, how to Heaven may Balder be restored. 

Show me through all the world the signs of grief! 

Fails but one thing to grieve, here Balder stops ! 

Let all that lives and moves upon the earth 

Weep him, and all that is without life weep; 



II J BALDER DEAD. 

T<ct Gods, men, brutes, beweep him; plants and stones! 

So shall I know the lost was dear indeed. 

And bend my heart, and give him back to Heaven.' 

She spake; and Hermod answer'd her, and said: — 
' Hela, such as thou say'st, the terms shall be. 
But come, declare me this, and truly tell: 
May I, ere I depart, bid Balder hail; 
Or is it here withheld to greet the dead?' 

He spake; and straightway Hela answered him:— 
* Hermod, greet Balder if thou wilt, and hold 
Converse; his speech remains, though he be dead.' 

And straight to Balder Hermod turn'd, and spake : — • 
'Even in the abode of death, O Balder, hail! 
Thou hear'st, if hearing, like as speech, is thine, 
The terms of thy releasement hence to Heaven; 
Fear nothing but that all shall be fulfiU'd. 
For not unmindful of thee are the Gods, 
Who see the light, and blest in Asgard dwell; 
Even here they seek thee out, in Hela's realm. . 
And sure of all the happiest far art thou 
Who ever have been known in earth or Heaven ; 
Alive, thou wast of Gods the most beloved. 
And now thou sittest crown'd by Hela's side, 
Here, and hast honour among all the dead.' 

He spake ; and Balder utter 'd him reply, 
But feebly, as a voice far off; he said : — 

'Hermod the nimble, gild me not my death!. 
Better to hve a serf, a captured man, 
Who scatters rushes in a master's hall. 
Than be a crown'd king here, and rule the dead. 
And now I count not of these terms as safe 
To be fulfall'd, nor my return as sure, 
Though I be loved, and many mourn my death; 
For double-minded ever was the seed 



BALDER DEAD. 113 

Of Lok, and double are the gifts they give. 

Howbeit, report thy message ; and therewith, 

To Odin, to my father, take this ring, 

Memorial of me, whether saved or no ; 

And tell the Heaven-born Gods how thou hast seen 

Me sitting here below by Hela's side. 

Crown'd, having honour among all the dead.' 

He spake, and raised his hand, and gave the ring. 
And with inscrutable regard the queen 
Of Hell beheld them, and the ghosts stood dumb. 
But Hermod took the ring, and yet once more 
Kneel'd and did homage to the solemn queen ; 
Then mounted Sleipner, and set forth to ride 
Back, through the astonish'U tribes of dead, to Heaven. 
And to the wall he came, and found the grate - 
Lifted, and issued on the fields of ice. 
And o'er the ice he fared to Ocean's strand. 
And up from thence, a wet and misty road, 
To the arm'd damsel's bridge, and Giall's stream. 
Worse was that way to go than to return. 
For him ;— for others all return is barr'd. 
Nine days he took to go, two to return. 
And on the twelfth morn saw the light of Heaven. 
And as a traveller in the early dawn 
To the steep edge of some great valley comes. 
Through which a river flows, and sees, beneath, 
Clouds of white rolling vapours fill the vale, 
But o'er them, on the farther slope, descries 
Vineyards, and crofts, and pastures, bright with sun — 
So Hermod, o'er the fog between, saw Heaven. 
And Sleipner snorted, for he smelt the air 
Of Heaven ; and mightily, as wing'd, he flew. 
And Hermod saw the towers of Asgard rise;. 
And he drew near, and heard no living voice 
I 



114 BALDER DEAD. 

In Asgard; and the golden halls were dumb. 
Then Hermod knew what labour held the Gods ; 
And through the empty streets he rode, and pass'd 
Under the gate-house to the sands, and found 
The Gods on the seashore by Balder's ship. 



8. FUNERAL, 

The Gods held talk together, group'd in knots, 
Round Balder's corpse, which they had thither borne ; 
And Hermod came down towards them from the gate. 
And Lok, the father of the serpent, first 
Beheld him come, and to his neighbour spake : — 

' See, here is Hermod, who comes single back 
From Hell; and shall I tell thee how he seems? 
Like as a farmer, who hath lost his dog. 
Some morn, at market, in a crowded town — 
Through many streets the poor beast runs in vain, 
And follows this man after that, for hours ; 
And, late at evening, spent and panting, falls 
Before a stranger's threshold, not his home, 
With flanks a-tremble, and his slender tongue 
Hangs quivering out between his dust-smear'd jaws, 
And piteously he eyes the passers by; 
But home his master comes to his own farm, 
Far in the country, wondering where he is — 
So Hermod comes to-day unfollow'd home.' 

And straight his neighbour, moved with wrath, 
replied : — 
' Deceiver ! fair in form, but false in heart ! 
Enemy, mocker, whom, though Gods, we hate — 
Peace, lest our father Odin hear thee gibe 1 



BALDER DEAD. 115 

Would I might see him snatch thee in his hand, 
And bind thy carcase, like a bale, with cords, 
And hurl thee in- a lake, to sink or swim ! 
If clear from plotting Balder's death, to swim; 
But deep, if thou devisedst it, to drown, 
And perish, against fate, before thy day.' 

So they two soft to one another spake. 
But Odin look'd toward the land, and saw 
His messenger; and he stood forth, and cried. 
And Hermod came, and leapt from Sleipner down. 
And in his father's hand put Sleipner's rein, 
And greeted Odin and the Gods, and said : — 

' Odin, my father, and ye, Gods of Heaven ! 
Lo, home, having perform'd your will, I come. 
Into the joyless kingdom have I been, 
Below, and look'd upon the shadowy tribes 
Of ghosts, and communed with their solemn queen ; 
And to your prayer she sends you this reply : 
Show her through all the world the signs of grief ! 
Fails but one thing to grieve, there Balder stops ! 
Let Gods, men, brutes, beweep him; plan.'s and stones! 
So shall she know your loss was dear itideed, 
And be?id her heart, and give you Balder back! 

He spoke ; and all the Gods to Odin look'd ; 
And straight the Father of the ages said : — 

' Ye Gods, these terms may keep another day. 
But now, put on your arms, and mount your steeds. 
And in procession all come near, and weep 
Balder; for that is what the dead desire. 
When ye enough have wept, then build a pile 
Of the heap'd wood, and burn his corpse with fire 
Out of our sight ; that we may turn from grief, 
And lead, as erst, our daily life in Heaven.' 

He spoke, and the Gods arm'd ; and Odin donn'd 
1 2 



Ii6 BALDER DEAD, 

His dazzling corslet and his helm of gold, 
And led the way on Sleipner ; and the rest 
Follow'd, in tears, their father and their king. 
And thrice in arms around the dead they rode, 
Weeping ; the sands were wetted, and their arms, 
With their thick-falling tears — so good a friend 
They mourn'd that day, so bright, so loved a God. 
And Odin came, and laid his kingly hands 
On Balder's breast, and thus began the wail : — 

* Farewell, O Balder, bright and loved, my son ! 
In that great day, the twilight of the Gods, 
When Muspel's children shall beleaguer Heaven, 
Then we shall miss thy counsel and thy arm.' 

Thou camest near the next, O warrior Thor ! 
Shouldering thy. hammer, in thy chariot drawn. 
Swaying the long-hair'd goats with silver'd rein; 
And over Balder's corpse these words didst say: — 

' Brother, thou dwellest in the darksome land, 
And talkest with the feeble tribes of ghosts, 
Now, and I know not how they prize thee there — 
But here, I know, thou wilt be miss'd and mourn'd. 
For haughty spirits and high wraths are rife 
Among the Gods and Heroes here in Heaven, 
As among those whose joy and work is war; 
And daily strifes arise, and angry words. 
But from thy lips, O Balder, night or day, 
Heard no one ever an injurious word 
To God or Hero, but thou keptest back 
The others, labouring to compose their brawls. 
Be ye then kind, as Balder too was kind ! 
For we lose him, who smoothed all strife in Heaven.' 

He spake, and all the Gods assenting wail'd. 
And Freya next came nigh, with golden tears; 
The loveliest Goddess she in Heaven, by all 



BALDER DEAD-. 117 

Most honour'd after Frea, Odin's wife. 

Her long ago the wandering Oder took 

To mate, but left her to roam distant lands ; 

Since then she seeks him, and weeps tears of gold. 

Names hath she many ; Vanadis on earth 

They call her, Freya is her name in Heaven ; 

She in her hands took Balder's head, and spake : — 

' Balder, my brother, thou art gone a road 
Unknown and long, and haply on that way 
My long-lost wandering Oder thou hast met, 
For in the paths of Heaven he is not found. 
Oh, if it be so, tell him what thou wast 
To his neglected wife, and what he is. 
And wring his heart with shame, to hear thy word! 
For he, my husband, left me here to pine, 
Not long a wife, when his unquiet heart 
First drove him from me into distant lands; 
Since then I vainly seek him through the world. 
And weep from shore to shore my golden tears, 
But neither god nor mortal heeds my pain. 
Thou only, Balder, wast for ever kind. 
To take my hand, and wipe my tears, and say : 
Weep noty O Freya, weep no golden tears I 
One day the wandering Oder will return, ' 
Or thou wilt find him in thy faithful search 
On some great road, or resting in an inn, 
Or at a ford, or sleeping by a tree. 
So Balder said; — but Oder, well I know, 
My truant Oder I shall see no more 
To the world's end ; and Balder now is gone, 
And I am left uncomforted in Heaven.' 

She spake ; and all the Goddesses bewail'd. 
Last from among the Heroes one came near. 
No God, but of the hero-troop the chief — 



n8 BALDER DEAD. 

Regner, who swept the northern sea with fleets, 

And ruled o'er Denmark and the . heathy isles, 

Living; but Ella captured him and slew; — 

A king, whose fame then fill'd the vast of Heaven, 

Now time obscures it, and men's later deeds. 

He last approach'd the corpse, and spake, and said : — ■ 

'Balder, there yet are many Scalds in Heaven 
Still left, and that chief Scald, thy brother Brage, 
Whom we may bid to sing, though thou art gone. 
And all these gladly, while we drink, we hear, 
After the feast is done, in Odin's hall ; 
But they harp ever on one string, and wake 
Remembrance in our soul of wars alone, 
Such as on earth we valiantly have waged. 
And blood, and ringing blows, and violent death. 
But when thou sangest. Balder, thou didst strike 
Another note, and, like a bird in spring, 
Thy voice of joyance minded us, and youth. 
And wife, and children, and our ancient home. 
Yes, and I, too, remember'd then no more 
My dungeon, where the serpents stung me dead. 
Nor Ella's victory on the English coast — 
But I heard Thora laugh in Gothland Isle, 
And saw my shepherdess, Aslauga, tend 
Her flock along the white Norwegian beach. 
Tears started to mine eyes with yearning joy. 
Therefore with grateful heart I mourn thee dead.' 

So Regner spake, and all the Heroes groan'd. 
But now the sun had pass'd the height of Heaven, 
And soon had all that day been spent in wail; 
But then the Father of the ages said : — 

' Ye Gods, there well may be too much of wail ! 
Bring now the gather'd wood to Balder's ship ; 
Heap on the deck the logs, and build the pyre.' 



BALDER DEAD. 119 

But when the Gods and Heroes heard, they brought 
The wood to Balder's ship, and built a pile. 
Full the deck's breadth, and lofty; then the corpse 
Of Balder on the highest top they laid, 
With Nanna on his right, and on his left 
Hoder, his brother, whom his own hand slew. 
And they set jars of wine and oil to lean 
Against the bodies, and stuck torches near, 
Splinters of pine-wood, soak'd with turpentine; 
And brought his arms and gold, and all his stuff, 
And slew the dogs who at his table fed. 
And his horse, Balder's horse, whom most he loved, 
And threw them on the pyre, and Odin threw 
A last choice gift thereon, his golden ring. 
The mast they fixt, and hoisted up the sails, 
Then they put fire to the wood ; and Thor 
Set his stout shoulder hard against the stern 
To push the ship through the thick sand ; — sparks flew 
From the deep trench she plough'd, so strong a God 
Furrow'd it; and the water gurgled in. 
And the ship floated on the waves, and rock'd. 
But in the hills a strong east-wind arose, 
And came down moaning to the sea; first squalls 
Ran black o'er the sea's face, then steady rush'd 
The breeze, and fill'd the sails, and blew the fire. 
And wreathed in smoke the ship stood out to sea. 
Soon with a roaring rose the mighty fire. 
And the pile crackled; and between the logs 
Sharp quivering tongues of flame shot out, and leapt. 
Curling and darting, higher, until they lick'd 
The summit of the pile, the dead, the mast, 
And ate the shrivelling sails ; but still the ship 
Drove on, ablaze above her hull with fire. 
And the Gods stood upon the beach, and gazed. 



t20 BALDER DEAD, 

And while they gazed, the sun went lurid down 
Into the smoke-wrapt sea, and night came on. 
Then the wind fell, with night, and there was calm ; 
But through the dark they watch'd the burning ship 
Still carried o'er the distant waters on, 
Farther and farther, like an eye of fire. 
And long, in the far dark, blazed Balder's pile; 
But fainter, as the stars rose high, it flared ; 
The bodies were consumed, ash choked the pile. 
And as,, in a decaying winter-fire, 
A charr'd log, falling, makes a shower of sparks — 
So with a shower of sparks the pile fell in, 
Reddening the sea around; and all was dark. 

But the Gods went by starlight up the shore 
To Asgard, and sate down in Odin's hall 
At table, and the funeral-feast began. 
All night they ate the boar Serimner's flesh, 
And from their horns, with silver rimm'd, drank mead. 
Silent, and waited for the sacred morn. 

And morning over all the world was spread. 
Then from their loathed feast the Gods arose, 
And took their horses, and set forth to ride 
O'er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall's watch. 
To the ash Igdrasil, and Ida's plain. 
Thor came on foot, the rest on horseback rode. 
And they found Mimir sitting by his fount 
Of wisdom, which beneath the ashtree springs; 
And saw the Nornies watering the roots 
Of that world-shadowing tree with honey-dew. 
There came the Gods, and sate them down on stones ; 
And thus the Father of the ages said : — 

'Ye Gods, the terms ye know, which Hermod 
brought. 
Accept them or reject them ! both have grounds. 



BALDER DEAD. 121 

Accept them, and they bind us, unfulfiU'd, 
To leave for ever Balder in the grave, 
An unrecover'd prisoner, shade with shades. 
But how, ye say, should the fulfilment fail? — 
Smooth sound the terms, and light to be fulfill'd; 
For dear-beloved was Balder while he lived 
In Heaven and earth, and who would grudge him tears ? 
But from the traitorous seed of Lok they come, 
These terms, and I suspect some hidden fraud. 
Bethink ye, Gods, is there no other way? — 
Speak, were not this a way, the way for Gods? 
If I, if Odin, clad in radiant arms, ' 
Mounted on Sleipner, with the warrior Thor 
Drawn in his car beside me, and my sons, 
All the strong brood of Heaven, to swell my train, 
Should make irruption into Hela's realm, 
And set the fields of gloom ablaze with light, 
And bring in triumph Balder back to Heaven?' 
He spake, and his fierce sons* applauded loud. 
But Frea, mother of the Gods, arose,* 
Daughter and wife of Odin ; thus she said : — 
,'Odin, thou whirlwind, what a threat is this! 
Thou threatenest what transcends thy might, even thine. 
For of all powers the mightiest far art thou. 
Lord over men on earth, and Gods in Heaven ; 
Yet even from thee thyself hath been withheld 
One thing — to undo what thou thyself hast ruled. 
For all which hath been fixt, was fixt by thee. 
,ln the beginning, ere the Gods were born. 
Before the Heavens were builded, thou didst slay 
The giant Ymir, whom the abyss brought forth, 
Thou and thy brethren fierce, the sons of Bor, 
And cast his trunk to choke the abysmal void. 
But of his flesh and members thou didst build 



T23 BALDER DEAD. 

The earth and Ocean, and above them Heaven. 
And from the flaming world, where Muspel reigns, 
Thou sent'st and fetched'st fire, and madest lights, 
Sun, moon, and stars, which thou hast hung in 

Heaven, 
Dividing clear the paths of night and day. 
And Asgard thou didst build, and Midgard fort; 
Then me thou mad'st ; of lis the Gods were born. 
Last, walking by the sea, thou foundest spars 
Of wood, and framed'st men, who till the earth, 
Or on the sea, the field of pirates, sail. 
And all the race of Ymir thou didst drown, 
Save one, Bergelmer; — he on shipboard fled 
Thy deluge, and from him the giants sprang. 
But all that brood thou hast removed far ofT, 
And set by Ocean's utmost marge to dwell. 
But Hela into Niflheim thou threw'st, 
And gav'st her nine unlighted worlds to rule, 
A queen, and empire over all the dead. 
That empire wilt thou now invade, light up 
Her darkness, from her grasp a subject tear?— 
Try it; but I, for one, will not applaud. 
Nor do I merit, Odin, thou should'st slight 
Me and my words, though thou be first in Heaven ; 
For I too am a Goddess, born of thee, 
Thine eldest, and of me the Gods are sprung; 
And all that is to come I know, but lock 
In mine own breast, and have to none reveal'd. 
Come then ! since Hela holds by right her prey, 
But offers terms for his release to Heaven, 
Accept the chance; thou canst no more obtain. 
Send through the world thy messengers; entreat 
All living and unliving things to weep 
For Balder; if thou haply thus may'st melt 



BALDER DEAD. 123 

Hela, and win the loved one back to Heaven.' 

She spake, and on her face let fall her veil, 
And bow'd her head, and sate with folded hands. 
Nor did the all-ruling Odin slight her word ; 
Straightway he spake, and thus address'd the Gods : 

' Go quickly forth through all the world, and pray 
All living and unliving things to weep 
Balder, if haply he may thus be won.' 

When the Gods heard, they, straight arose, and took 
Their horses, and rode forth through all the world. 
North, south, east, west, they struck, and roam'd 

the world, 
Entreating all things to weep Balder's death ; 
And all that lived, and all without life, wept. 
And as in winter, when the frost breaks up, 
At winter's end, before the spring begins. 
And a warm west-wind blows, and thaw sets in — 
After an hour a dripping sound is heard 
In all the forests, and the soft-strewn snow 
Under the trees is dibbled thick with holes. 
And from the boughs the snowloads shuffle down ; 
And, in fields sloping to the south, dark plots 
Of grass peep out amid surrounding snow, 
And widen, and the peasant's heart is glad — 
So through the world was heard a dripping noise 
Of all things weeping to bring Balder back; 
And there fell joy upon the Gods to hear. 

But Hermod rode with Niord, whom he took 
To show him spits and beaches of the sea 
Far off, where some linwarn'd might fail to weep — 
Niord, the God of storms, whom fishers know; 
Not born in Heaven — he was in Vanheim rear'd, 
With men, but lives a hostage with the Gods; 
He knows each frith, and every rocky creek 



134 BALDER DEAD. 

Fringed with dark pines, and sands where seafowl 

scream ; — 
They -two scour'd every coast, and all things wept. 
And they rode home together, through the wood 
Of Jarnvid, which to east of Midgard lies 
Bordering the giants, where the trees are iron; 
There in the wood before a cave they came, 
Where sate, in the cave's mouth, a skinny hag, 
Toothless and old; she gibes the passers by. 
Thok is she call'd, but now Lok wore her shape; 
She greeted them the first, and laugh'd, and said : — 

'Ye Gods, good lack, is it so dull in Heaven, 
That ye come pleasuring to Thok's iron wood? 
Lovers of change ye are, fastidious sprites. 
Look, as in some boor's yard a sweet-breath'd cow. 
Whose manger is stuff'd full of good fresh hay, 
Snuffs at it daintily, and stoops her head 
To chew the straw, her litter, at her feet — 
So ye grow squeamish, Gods, and sniff at Heaven!' 

She spake ; but Hermod answer'd her and said : — • 
' Thok, not for gibes we come, we come for tears. 
Balder is dead, and Hela holds her prey, 
But will restore, if all things give him tears. 
Begrudge not thine ! to all was Balder dear.' 

Then, with a louder laugh, the hag replied : — 
' Is Balder dead ? and do ye come for tears ? 
Thok with dry eyes will weep o'er Balder's pyre. 
Weep him all other things, if weep they will — 
I weep him not ! let Llcla keep her prey.' 

She spake, and to the cavern's depth she fled, 
Mocking; and Hermod knew their toil was vain. 
And as seafaring men, who long have wrought 
.In the great deep for gain, at last come home, 
And towards evening see the headlands rise 



BALDER DEAD. 125 

Of their dear country, and can plain descry 
A fire of wither'd furze which boys have Ht 
Upon the cliffs, or smoke of burning weeds 
Out of a till'd field inland; — then the wind 
Catches them, and drives out again to sea; 
And they go long days tossing up and down 
Over the grey sea-ridges, and the glimpse 
Of port they had makes bitterer far their toil — 
So the Gods' cross was bitterer for their joy. 

Then, sad at heart, to Niord Hermod spake : — 
' It is the accuser Lok, who flouts us all ! 
Ride back, and tell in Heaven this heavy news; 
I must again below, to Hela's realm.'. 

He spoke ; and Niord set forth back to Heaven.' 
But northward Hermod rode, the way below, 
The way he knew ; and traversed Giall's stream, 
And down to Ocean groped, and cross'd the ice. 
And came beneath the wall, and found the grate 
Still lifted; well was his return foreknown. 
And once more Hermod saw around him spread 
The joyless plains, and heard the streams of Hell. 
But as he enter'd, on the extremest bound 
Of Niflheim, he saw one ghost come near, 
Hovering, and stopping oft, as if afraid — • 
Hoder, the unhappy, whom his own hand slew. 
And Hermod look'd, and knew his brother's ghost, 
And call'd him by his name, and sternly said: — 

' Hoder, ill-fated, blind in heart and eyes ! 
Why tarriest thou to plunge thee in the gulph 
Of the deep inner gloom, but flittest here, 
In twilight, on the lonely verge of Hell, 
Far from the other ghosts, and Hela's throne? . 
doubtless thou fearest to meet Balder's voice, 
Thy brother, whom through folly thou didst slay.* 



126 BALDER DEAD. 

He spoke ; but Hoder answer'd him, and said : — 
' Hermod the nimble, dost thou still pursue 
The unhappy with reproach, even in the grave? 
For this I died, and fled beneath the gloom, 
Not daily, to endure abhorring Gods, 
Nor with a hateful presence cumber Heaven ; 
And canst thou not, even here, pass pitying by? 
No less than Balder have I lost the light 
Of Heaven, and communion with my* kin ; 
I too had once a wife, and once a child. 
And substance, and a golden house in Heaven — 
But all I left of my own act, and fled 
Below, and dost thou hate me even here? 
Balder upbraids me not, nor hates at all, 
Though he has cause, have any cause ; but he, 
When that with downcast looks I hither came, 
Stretch'd forth his hand, and with benignant voice, 
Welcome, he said, if there be welcome here, 
Brother and fellow-sport of Lok with me! 
And not to offend thee, Hermod. nor to force 
My hated converse on thee, came I up 
From the deep gloom, where I will now return; 
But earnestly I long'd to hover near, 
Not too far off, when that thou earnest by; 
To feel the presence of a brother God, 
And hear the passage of a horse of Heaven, 
For the last time — for here thou com'st no more.' 

He spake, and turn'd to go to the inner gloom. 
But Hermod stay'd him with mild words, and said : — 

'Thou doest well to chide me, Hoder blind! 
Truly thou say'st, the planning guilty mind 
Was Lok's ; the unwitting hand alone was thine. 
But Gods are like the sons of men in this — 
When they have woe, they blame the nearest cause 



BALDER DEAD. 127 

Howbeit stay, and be appeased ! and tell : 

Sits Balder still in pomp by Hela's side, 

Or is he mingled with the unnumber'd dead ?' 

And the blind Hoder answer'd him and spake : — 
'His place of state remains by Hela's side, 
But empty ; for his wife, for Nanna came 
Lately below, and join'd him ; and the pair 
Frequent the still recesses of the realm 
Of Hela, and hold converse undisturb'd. 
But they too, doubtless, will have breathed the balm 
Which floats before a visitant from Heaven, 
And have drawn upward to this verge of Hell' 

He spake; and, as he ceased, a puff of wind 
RoU'd heavily the leaden mist aside 
Round where they stood, and they beheld two forms 
Make toward them o'er the stretching cloudy plain. 
And Hermod straight perceived them, who they were, 
Balder and Nanna; and to Balder said: — 

' Balder, too truly thou foresaw'st a snare ! 
Lok triumphs still, and Hela keeps her prey. 
No more to Asgard shalt thou come, nor lodge 
In thy own house, Breidablik, nor enjoy 
The love all bear toward thee, nor train up 
Forset, thy son, to be beloved like thee. 
Here must thou lie, and wait an endless age. 
Therefore for the last time, O Balder, hail!' 

He spake ; and Balder answer'd him, and said : — 
' Hail and farewell ! for here thou com'st no more. 
Yet mourn not for me, Hermod, when thou silt'si 
In Heaven, nor let the other Gods lament, 
As wholly to be pitied, quite forlorn. 
For Nanna hath rejoin'd me, who, of old, 
In Heaven, was seldom parted from my side ; 
And still the acceptance follows me, which crown'd 



128 BALDER DEAD. 

My former life, and cheers me even here. 
The iron frown of Ilela is relax'd 
When I draw nigh, and the wan tribes of dead 
Love me, and gladly bring for my award 
Their ineffectual feuds and feeble hates^ 
Shadows of hates, but they distress them still.* 

And the fleet-footed Hermod made reply: — ' 
' Thou hast then all the solace death allows, 
Esteem and function; and so far is well. 
Yet here thou Rest, Balder, underground, 
Rusting for ever; and the years roll on, 
The generations pass, the ages grow. 
And bring us nearer to the final day 
When from the south shall march the fiery band- 
And cross the bridge of Heaven, with Lok for guide. 
And Fenris at his heel with broken chain ; 
While from the east the giant Rymer steers 
His ship, and the great serpent makes to land ; 
And all are marshall'd in one flaming square 
Against the Gods, upon the plains of Heaven. 
I mourn thee, that thou canst not help us then.' 

He spake ; but Balder answer'd him, and said : — 
* Mourn not for me 1 Mourn, Hermod, for the Gods ; 
Mourn for the men on earth, the Gods in Heaven, 
Who live, and with their eyes shall see that day 1 
The day will come, when fall shall Asgard's towers, 
And Odin, and his sons, the seed of Heaven ; 
But what were I, to save them in that hour? 
If strength might save them., could not Odin save, 
My father, and his pride, the warrior Thor, 
Vidar the silent, the impetuous Tyr? — 
I, what were I, when these can nought avail? 
• Yet, doubtless, when the day of battle comes, 
And the two hosts are marshall'd, and in Heaven 



BALDER DEAD. 129 

The golden-crested cock shall sound alarm, 

And his black brother-bird from hence reply, 

And bucklers clash, and spears begin to pour — 

Longing will stir within my breast, though vain. 

But not to me so grievous, as, I know. 

To other Gods it were, is my enforced 

Absence from fields where I could nothing aid ; 

For I am long since weary of your storm 

Of carnage, and find, Hermod, in your life 

Something too much of war and broils, which make 

Life one perpetual fight, a bath of blood. 

Mine eyes are dizzy with the arrowy hail; 

Mine ears are stunn'd with blows, and sick for calm. 

Inactive therefore let me lie, in gloom, 

Unarm'd, inglorious ; I attend the course 

Of ages, and my late return to light, 

In times less alien to a spirit mild. 

In new-recover'd seats, the happier day.' 

He spake ; and the fleet Hermod thus replied : — 
* Brother, what seats are these, what happier day ? 
Tell me, that I may ponder It when gone.' 

And the ray-crowned Balder answer'd him : — 
' Far to the south, beyond the blue, there spreads 
Another Heaven, the boundless — no one yet 
Hath reach'd it ; there hereafter shall arise 
The second Asgard, with another name. 
Thither, when o'er this present earth and Heavens 
The tempest of the latter days hath swept. 
And they from sight have disappear'd, and sunk. 
Shall a small remnant of the Gods repair; 
Hoder and I shall join them from the grave. 
There re-assembling we shall see emerge 
From the bright Ocean at our feet an earth 
More fresh, more verdant than the last, with fruits 

K 



I30 BALDER DEAD. 

Self-springinc^, and a seed of man preserved, 

Who then shall live in peace, as now in war. 

But we in Heaven shall find again with joy 

The ruin'd palaces of Odin, seats 

Familiar, halls where we have supp'd of old ; 

Re-enter them with wonder, never fill 

Our eyes with gazing, and rebuild with tears. 

And we shall tread once more the well-known plain 

Of Ida, and among the grass shall find 

The golden dice wherewith we play'd of yore; 

And that will bring to mnid the former life 

And pastime of the Gods, the wise discourse 

Of Odin, the delights of other days. 

Hermod, pray that thou may'st join us then ! 
Such for the future is my hope ; meanwhile, 

1 rest the thrall of Hela, and endure 

Death, and the gloom which round me even now 
Thickens, and to its inner gulph recalls. 
Farewell, for longer speech is not allow'd!' 

He spoke, and waved farewell, and gave his hand 
To Nanna; and she gave their brother blind 
Her hand, in turn, for guidance; and the three 
Departed o'er the cloudy plain, and soon 
Faded from sight into the interior gloom. 
But Hermod stood beside his drooping horse, 
Mute, gazing after them in tears; and fain. 
Fain had he foUow'd their receding steps, 
Though they to death were bound, and he to 

Heaven, 
Then; but a power he could not break withheld. 
And as a stork which idle boys have trapp'd. 
And tied him in a yard, at autumn sees 
Flocks of his kind pass flying O'cr his head 
To warmer lands, and coasts that keep the sun; — 



TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 131 

He strains to join their flight, and from his shed 
Follows them with a long complaining cry — 
So Hermod gazed, and yearn'd to join his kin. 

At last he sigh'd, and set forth back to Heaven. 



TRISTRAM AND ISEULTJ 
I. 

Tristram. 
Is she not come ? The messenger was sure. 
Prop me upon the pillows once again — 
Raise me, my page ! this cannot long endure. 
— Christ, what a night ! how the sleet whips the pane I 
What lights will those out to the northward bei* 

The Page. 
The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea. 

Tristram. 
Soft — who is that, stands by the dying fire? 

The Page. 

Iseult. 

Tristram. 

Ahl not the Iseult I desire. 

* * * * 

What Knight is this so weak and pale, 

Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head, 

Propt on pillows in his bed, 

Gazing seaward for the light 

Of some ship that fights the gale 

On this wild December night? 

K 2 



132 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 

Over the sick man's feet is spread 

A dark green forest-dress; 

A gold harp leans against the bed, 

Ruddy in the fire's light. 

I know him by his harp of gold, 

Famous in Arthur's court of old; 

I know him by his forest-dress — 

The peerless hunter, harper, knight, 

Tristram of Lyoness. 

What Lady is this, whose silk attire 
Gleams so rich in the light of the fire? 
The ringlets on her shoulders lying 
. In their flitting lustre vying 
With the clasp of burnish'd gold 
Which her heavy robe doth hold. 
Her looks are mild, her fingers slight 
As the driven snow are white; 
But her cheeks are sunk and pale. 
Is it that the bleak sea-gale 
Beating from the Atlantic sea 
On this coast of Brittany, 
Nips too keenly the sweet flower? 
Is it that a deep fatigue 
Hath come on her, a chilly fear, 
Passing all her youthful hour 
Spinning with her maidens here, 
Listlessly through the window-bars • 
Gazing seawards many a league 
From her lonely shore-built tower. 
While the knights are at the wars? 
Or, perhaps, has her young heart 
Felt already some deeper smart, 
Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive, 



TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 133 

Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair ? 
Who is this snowdrop by the sea? — 
I know her by her mildness rare, 
Her snow-white hands, her golden hair; 
I know her by her rich silk dress, 
And her fragile loveliness — 
The sweetest Christian soul alive, 
Iseult of Brittany. 

Iseult of Brittany? — but where 

Is that other Iseult fair, 

That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall's queen? 

She, whom Tristram's ship of yore 

From Ireland to Cornwall bore. 

To Tyntagel, to the side 

Of King Marc, to be his bride ? 

She who, as they voyaged, quaff'd 

With Tristram that spiced magic draught, 

Which since then for ever rolls 

Through their blood, and binds their souls, 

Working love, but working teen? — 

There were two Iseults who did sway 

Each her hour of Tristram's day; 

But one possess'd his waning time, 

The other his resplendent prime. 

Behold her here, the patient flower, 

Who possess'd his darker hour 1 

Iseult of the Snow- White Hand 

Watches pale by Tristram's bed. 

She is here who had his gloom, 

Where are thou who hadst his bloom? 

One such kiss as those of yore 

Might thy dying knight restore ! 

Does the love-drauo ht work no more ? 



134 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 

Art thou cold, or false, or dead, 
Iseuk of Ireland? 



Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain, 

And the knight sinks back on his pillows again ; 

He is weak with fever and pain, 

And his spirit is not clear. 

Hark ! he mutters in his sleep, 

As he wanders far from here. 

Changes place and time of year, 

And his closed eye doth sweep 

O'er some fair unwintry sea, 

Not this fierce Atlantic deep. 

While he mutters brokenly : — 

Tristram. 
The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel's sails; 
Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales, 
And overhead the cloudless sky of May. — 
'■Ah, would I zvere in those green fields at play, 
Not pent on ship-board this delicious day I 
Jristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy, 
Reach me my golden cup that stands by thee, 
But pledge me in it first for courtesy. — ' 
Ha ! dost thou start .? are thy Hps blanch'd like mine ? 
Child, 'tis no water this, 'tis poison'd wine ! 
Iseult! .... 

4s * * • 

Ah, sweet angels, let him dream 1 
Keep his eyelids ! let him seem 
Not this fever-wasted wight 
Thinn'd and paled before his time. 
But the brilliant youthful knight 
In the glory of his prime, 



TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 135 

Sitting in the gilded barge, 

At thy side, thou lovely charge, 

Bending gaily o'er thy hand, 

Iseult of Ireland! 

And she too, that princess fair, 

If her bloom be now less rare. 

Let her have her youth again — 

Let her be as she was then ! 

Let her have her proud dark eyes, 

And her petulant quick replies — 

Let her sweep her dazzling hand 

With its gesture of command, 

And shake back her raven h.iir 

With the old imperious air ! 

As of old, so let her be, 

That first Iseult, princess bright. 

Chatting with her youthful knight 

As he steers her o'er the sea, 

Quitting at her father's will 

The green isle where she was bred, 

And her bower in Ireland, 

For the surge-beat Cornish strand ; 

Where' the prince whom she must wed 

Dwells on loud Tyntagel's hill. 

High above the sounding sea. 

And that golden cup her mother 

Gave her, that her future lord, 

Gave her, that King Marc and she, 

Might drink it on their marriage-day. 

And for ever love each other — 

Let her, as she sits on board, 

Ah ! sweet saints, unwittingly I 

See it shine, and take it up. 

And to Tristram laughing say: 



136 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT, 

•Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy, 

Pledge me in my golden cup!' 

Le,t them drink it — let their hands 

Tremble, and their cheeks be flame. 

As they feel the fatal bands 

Of a love they dare not name, 

With a wild delicious pain. 

Twine about their hearts again! 

Let the early summer be 

Once more round them, and the sea 

Blue, and o'er its mirror kind 

Let the breath of the May-wind, 

Wandering through their drooping sails, 

Die on the green fields of Wales! 

Let a dream like this restore 

What his eye must see no more ! 

Tristram. 
Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce-walks are drear — 
Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here? 
Were feet like those made for so wild a way? 
The southern winter-parlour, by my fay. 
Had been the hkeliest trysting-place to-day ! — 
' Tristram 1 — nay^ nay — thotc must not take my hand ! — 
Tristram ! — sweet love ! — zve are betray' d — otd-plamid. 
Fly — save thyself- — save me ! — / dare not stay.' — 
One last kiss first! — ''Tis vain — to horse — away 1' 
* * * * 

Ah ! sweet saints, his dream doth move 

Faster surely than it should. 

From the fever in his blood! 

All the spring-time of his love 

Is already gone and past, 

And instead thereof is seen 



TRISTRAM AND ISEULT, 137 

Its winter, which endureth still — • 

Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill, 

The pleasaunce-walks, the weeping queen, 

The flying leaves, the straining blast, 

And that long, wild kiss — their last. 

And this rough December-night, 

And his burning fever-pain. 

Mingle with his hurrying dream. 

Till they rule it, till he seem 

The press'd fugitive again. 

The love-desperate banish'd knight 

With a fire in his brain 

Flying o'er the stormy main. 

— Whither does he wander now? 

Haply in his dreams the wind 

Wafts him here, and lets him find 

The lovely orphan child again 

In her castle by the coast ; 

The youngest, fairest chatelaine, 

That this realm of France can boast, 

Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea, 

Iseult of Brittany. 

And — for through the haggard air, 

The stain'd arms, the matted hair 

Of that stranger-knight ill-starr'd, 

There gleam'd something, which recall'd 

The Tristram who in better days 

Was Launcelot's guest at Joyous Gard— 

Welcomed here, and here install'd, 

Tended of his fever here. 

Haply he seems again to move 

His young guardian's heart with love; 

In his exiled loneliness, 

In his stately, deep distress, 



138 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 

Without a word, without a tear. 
— Ah ! 'tis well he should retrace 
His tranquil life in this lone place; 
His gentle bearing at the side 
Of his timid youthful bride ; 
His long rambles by the shore 
On winter-evenings, when the roar 
Of the near waves came, sadly grand, 
Through the dark, up the drown'd sand. 
Or his endless reveries 
In the woods, where the gleams play 
On the grass under the trees. 
Passing the long summer's day 
Idle as a mossy stone 
In the forest-depths alone. 
The chase neglected, and his hound 
Couch'd beside him on the ground. 
— Ah! what trouble's on his brow? 
Hither let him wander now; 
Hither, to the quiet hours 
Pass'd among these heaths of ours 
By the grey Adantic sea; 
Hours, if not of ecstasy, 
From violent anguish surely free 1 
Tristram. 

All red with blood the whirling river flows, 

The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows. 

Upon us are the chivalry of Rome — 

Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam. 

* Up, Tristram, up,' men cry, ' thou moonstruck knight ! 

"What foul fiend rides thee? On into the fight!' 

— Above the din her voice is in my ears; 

I see her form glide through the crossing spears. — 

Iseult ! . . . . 



TRISTRAM AND ISEULT, 139 

* * * * 

Ah! he wanders forth again; 

We cannot keep him ; now, as then, 

There 's a secret in his breast 

Which will never let him rest. 

These musing fits in the green wood, 

They cloud the brain, they dull the blood ! 

— His sword is sharp, his horse is good; 

Beyond the mountains will he see 

The famous towns of Italy, 

And label with the blessed sign 

The heathen Saxons on the Rhine. 

At Arthur's side he fights once more 

With the Roman Emperor. 

There 's many a gay knight where he goes 

Will help him to forget his care ; 

The march, the leaguer. Heaven's blithe air, 

The neighing steeds, the ringing blows — 

Sick pining comes not where these are. 

— Ah! what boots it, that the jest 

Lightens every other brow, 

What, that every other breast 

Dances as the trumpets blow, 

If one's own heart beats not light 

On the waves of the toss'd fight, 

If oneself cannot get free 

From the clog of misery? 

Thy lovely youthful wife grows pale 

Watching by the salt sea- tide 

With her children at her side 

For the gleam of thy white sail. 

Home, Tristram, to thy halls again! 

To our lonely sea complain, 

To our forests tell thy pain 1 



I40 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 

Trisiravi. 
All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade, 
But it is moonlight in the open glade; 
And in the bottom of the glade shine clear 
The forest-chapel and the fountain near. 
— I think, I have a fever in my blood ; 
Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood. 
Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood. 
— Mild shines the cold spring in the moon's clear light 
God ! 'tis her face plays in the waters bright. 
' Fair love,' she says, ' canst thou forget so soon, 
At this soft hour, under this sweet moon?' — 
Iseult ! . . . . 

Ah, poor soul! if this be so, 
Only death can balm thy woe. 
The solitudes of the green wood 
Had no medicine for thy mood ; 
The rushing battle clear' d thy blood 
As litde as did solitude. 
— Ah ! his eyelids slowly break 
Their hot seals, and let him wake; 
What new change shall we now see ? 
A happier? Worse it cannot be. 

Tristram. 
Is my page here ? Come, turn me to the fire ! 
Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright ; 
The wind is down — but she'll not come to-night. 
Ah no ! she is asleep in Cornwall now, 
Far hence ; her dreams are fair — smooth is her brow. 
Of me she recks not, nor my vain desire. 
— I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page, 
Would take a score years from a strong man's age ; 



TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 141 

And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear, 
Scant leisure for a second messenger. 
' — My princess, art thou there ? Sweet, 'tis too late ! 
To bed, and sleep ! my fever is gone by ; 
To-night my page shall keep me company. 
Where do the children sleep? kiss them for me I 
Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I ; 
This comes of nursing long and watching late. 
To bed — good night! 

« * « « 

She left the gleam-lit fire-place, 
She came to the bed-side ; 
She took his hands in hers — her tears 
Down on her slender fingers rain'd. 
She raised her eyes upon his face — 
Not with a look of wounded pride, 
A look as if the heart complain'd — 
Her look was like a sad embrace; 
The gaze of one who can divine 
A grief, and sympathise. 
Sweet flower 1 thy children's eyes 
Are not more innocent than thine. 

But they sleep in shelter'd rest, 
Like helpless birds in the warm nest. 
On the castle's southern side; 
Where feebly comes the mournful roar 
Of buffeting wind and surging tide 
Through many a room and corridor. 
— Full on their window the moon's ray 
Makes their chamber as bright as day. 
It shines upon the blank white walls, 
And on the snowy pillow falls. 
And on two angel-heads doth play 



142 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 

Turn'd to each other — the eyes closed, 

The lashes on the cheeks reposed. 

Round each sweet brow the cap close-set 

Hardly lets peep the golden hair; 

Through the soft-open'd lips the air 

Scarcely moves the coverlet. 

One little wandering arm is thrown 

At random on the counterpane, 

And often the fingers close in haste 

As if their baby-owner chased 

The butterflies again. 

This stir they have, and this alone; 

But else they are so still ! 

— Ah, tired madcaps ! you lie still ; 

But were you at the window now, 

To look forth on the fairy sight 

Of your illumined haunts by night. 

To see the park-glades where you play 

Far lovelier than they are by day, 

To see the sparkle on the eaves, 

And upon every giant-bough 

Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves 

Are jewell'd with bright drops of rain — 

How would your voices run again! 

And far beyond the sparkling trees 

Of the castle-park one sees 

The bare heaths spreading, clear as day, 

Moor behind moor, far, far away. 

Into the heart of Brittany. 

And here and there, lock'd by the land, 

Long inlets of smooth glittering sea, 

And many a stretch of watery sand 

All shining in the white moon-beams — 

But you see fairer in your dreams I 



TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 143 

What voices are these on the clear night air? 
What lights in the court— what steps on the stair? 



TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 

XL 

I<jcult of JrclanD. 

Tristram, 
Raise the light, my page ! that I may see her. — 

Thou art come at last then, haughty Queen ! 
Long I've waited, long I've fought my fever ; 

Late thou comest, cruel thou hast been. 
Iseiilt. 
Blame me not, poor sufferer ! that I tarried ; 

Bound I was, I could not break the band. 
Chide not with the past, but feel the present ! 

I am here — we meet — I hold thy hand. 
Tristram. 
Thou art come, indeed — thou hast rejoin'd me; 

Thou hast dared it — but too late to save. 
Fear not now that men should tax thine honour! 

I am dying ; build — (thou may'st) — my grave 1 
Iscult. 
Tristram, ah, for love of Heaven, speak kindly ! 

What, I hear these bitter words from thee ? 
Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel — 

Take my hand — dear Tristram., look on me 1 
Tristram. 
I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage — 

Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair. 
But thy dark eyes are not dimm'd, proud Iseult ! 

And thy beauty never was more fair. 



144 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 

Iseult. 

Ah, harsh flatterer ! let alone my beauty ! 

I, like thee, have left my youth afar. 
Take my hand, and touch these wasted fingers — • 

See my cheek and lips, how white they are ! 

Tristra?7t. 

Thou art paler — but thy sweet charm, Iseult ! 

Would not fade with the dull years away. 
Ah, how fair thou standest in the moonlight ! 

I forgive thee, Iseult !— thou wilt stay i 

Iseult. 

Fear me not, I will be always \\'\\h thee ; 

I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain; 
Sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers, 

Join'd at evening of their days again. 

Tr is Irani. 

No, thou shalt not speak ! I should be finding 
Something alter'd in thy courtly tone. 

Sit — sit by me! I will think, we've lived so 
In the green wood, all our lives, alone. 

Iseult. 

Alter'd, Tristram? Not in courts, believe me, 
Love like mine is alter'd in the breast; 

Courtly life is light and cannot reach it — 
Ah! it lives, because so deep-suppress'd ! 

What, thou think'st men speak in courtly chambers 
Words by which the wretched are consoled? 

What, thou think'st this aching brow was cooler. 
Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold? 



TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 145 

Royal state with Marc, my deep-wrong'd husband — 
That was bliss to make my sorrows flee ! 

Silken courtiers whispering honied nothings — 
Those were friends to make me false to thee ! 

Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced, 
Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown — 

Thee, a pining exile in thy forest, 

Me, a smiling queen upon my throne ? 

Vain and strange debate, where both have suffer'd, 
Both have pass'd a youth repress'd and sad, 

Both have brought their anxious day to evening, 
And have now short space for being glad ! 

Join'd we are henceforth; nor will thy people, 

Nor thy younger Iseult take it ill, 
That a former rival shares her office, 

When she sees her humbled, pale, and stilL 

I, a faded watcher by thy pillow, 

I, a statue on thy chapel-floor, 
Pour'd in prayer before the Virgin-Mother, 

Rouse no anger, make no rivals more. 

She will cry : ' Is this the foe I dreaded ? 

This his idol ? this that royal bride ? 
Ah, an hour of health would purge his eyesight! 

Stay, pale queen ! for ever by my side.' 

Hush, no words! that smile, I see, forgives me. 

I am now thy nurse, I bid thee sleep. 
Close thine eyes — this flooding moonlight blinds 
them ! — 

Nay, all's well again! thou must not weep. 

L 



146 TRISTRAM AND TSRULT. 

Tristram. 

I am happy ! yet I feel, there 's something 
Swells my heart, and takes my breath away. 

Through a mist I see thee; near — come nearer! 
Bend — bend down ! — I yet have much to say. 

Iseiilt. 

Heaven ! his head sinks back upon the pillow — 
Tristram ! Tristram ! let thy heart not fail 1 

Call on God and on the holy angels ! 

What, love, courage 1 — Christ I he is so pale. 

Tristram. 

Hush, 'tis vain, I feel my end approaching ! 

This is what my moiher said should be, 
When the fierce pains took her in the forest, 

The deep draughts of death, in bearing me. 

'Son,' she said, 'thy name shall be of sorrow; 

Tristram art thou call'd for my death's sake.' 
So she said, and died in the drear forest — 

Grief since then his home with me doth make. 

I am dying. — Start not, nor look wildly ! 

Me, thy living friend, thou canst not save. 
But, since living we were ununited, 

Go not far, O Iseult ! from my grave. 

Close mine eyes, then seek the princess Iseult; 

Speak her fair, she is of royal blood ! 
Say, I charged her, that ihou stay beside me — 

She will grant it; she is kind and good. 

Now to sail the seas of death I leave thee — 
One last kiss upon the living shore! 



TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 147 

Iseiilt, 

Tristram! — Tristram! — stay — receive me with thee! 
Iseult leaves thee, Tristram ! never more. 



You see them clear — the moon shines bright. 

Slow, slow and softly, where she stood, 

She sinks upon the ground ; — her hood 

Had fliUen back, her arms outspread 

Still hold her lover's hands ; her head 

Is bow'd, half-buried, on the bed. 

O'er the blanch'd sheet her raven hair 

Lies in disorder'd streams ; and there, 

Strung like white stars, the pearls still are, 

And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare, 

Flash on her white arms still. 

The very same which yesternight 

Flash'd in the silver sconces' light, 

When the feast was gay and the laughter loud 

In Tyntagel's palace proud. 

But then they deck'd a restless ghost 

With hot-flush'd cheeks and brilliant eyes, 

And quivering lips on which the tide 

Of courdy speech abruptly died, 

And a glance which over the crowded floor, 

The dancers, and the festive host. 

Flew ever to the door. 

That the knights eyed her in surprise, 

And the dames whispered scofiingly : 

' Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers I 

But yesternight and she would be 

As pale and still as wither'd flowers, 

And now to-night she laughs and speaks 

L 2 



148 TRTSTRAM AND ISEULT. 

And has a colour in her cheeks; 
Christ keep us from such fantasy 1'— 

Yes, now the longing is o'erpast, 

Which, dogg'd by fear and fought by shame. 

Shook her weak bosom day and night, 

Consumed her beauty like a flame, 

And dimm'd it like the desert-blast. 

And though the curtains hide her face, 

Yet were it lifted to the light, 

The sweet expression of her brow 

Would charm the gazer, till his thought 

Erased the ravages of time, 

Fill'd up the hollow cheek, and brought 

A freshness back as of her prime — 

So healing is her quiet now. 

So perfectly the lines express 

A tranquil, settled loveliness. 

Her younger rival's purest grace. 

The air of the December-night 

Steals coldly around the chamber bright, 

Where those lifeless lovers be. 

Swinging with it, in the light 

Flaps the ghostlike tapestry. 

And on the arras wrought you see 

A stately Huntsman, clad in green, 

And round him a fresh forest-scene. 

On that clear forest-knoll he stays. 

With his pack round him, and delays. 

He stares and stares, with troubled face. 

At this huge, gleam-lit fireplace. 

At that bright, iron-figured door. 

And those blown rushes on the floor. 

He gazes down into the room 



TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 149 

With heated cheeks and flurried air, 

And to himself he seems to say : 

' What place is this, and who are they? 

Who is that kneeling Lady fair P 

And on his piUoivs that pale Knight 

Who seems of marble on a tomb ? 

How comes it here, this chamber bright, 

Through whose mullion'd zvitidoivs clear 

The castle-court all wet with rain. 

The drawbridge and the moat appear, 

And then the beach, and, mar lid ivith spray. 

The sunken reefs, and far away 

The unquiet bright Atlantic plain ? 

— What, has some glamour made me sleep, 

And sent me with my dogs to sweep. 

By night, with boisterous bugle-peal, 

Through some old, sea-side, knightly hall. 

Not in the free green wood at all? 

That Knighfs asleep, a?jd at her prayer 

That Lady by the bed doth kneel — 

Then hush, thou boisterous bugle-peal T 

— The wild boar rustles in his lair; 

The fierce hounds snuff the tainted air; 

But lord and hounds keep rooted there. 

Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake, 
O Hunter! and without a fear 
Thy golden-tassell'd bugle blow, 
And through the glades thy pastime take — 
For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here ! 
For these thou seest are unmoved ; 
Cold, cold as those who lived and loved 
A thousand years ago. 



I50 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 

TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 

III. 

Hsciilt of iUrtttany. 

A YEAR had flown, and o'er the sea away, 
In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay; 
In King Marc's chapel, in Tyntagel old — 
There in a ship they bore those lovers cold. 

The young surviving Iseult, one bright day, 
Had wander'd forth. Her children were at play 
In a green circular hollow in the heath 
Which borders the sea-shore— a country path 
Creeps over it from the till'd fields behind. 
The hollow's grassy banks are soft-inclined, 
And to one standing on them, far and near 
The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear 
Over the waste. This cirque of open ground 
Is light and green ; the heather, which all round 
Creeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grass 
Is strewn with rocks and many a shiver'd mass 
Of vcin'd white-gleaming quartz, and here and there 
Dotted with holly-trees and juniper. 
In the smooth centre of the opening stood 
Three hollies side by side, and made a screen, 
Warm with the winter-sun, of burnish'd green 
With scarlet berries gemm'd, the fell-fare's food. 
Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands, 
Watching her children play ; their little hands 
Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams 
Of stagshorn for their hats ; anon, with screams 
Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound 
Among the holly-clumps and broken ground, 



TRISTRAM AND TSEULT. 151 

Racino: full speed, and startling in their rush 
The fell- fares and the speckled missel-thrush 
Out of their glossy coverts; — but when now 
Their cheeks were flush'd, and over each hot brow, 
Under the feather'd hats of the sweet pair. 
In blinding masses shower'd the golden hair — 
Then Iseult call'd them to her, and the three 
Cluster'd under the holly-screen, and she 
Told them an old-world Breton history. 

Warm in their mandes ^vrapt, the three stood there, 
Under the hollies, in the clear still air — 
Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering 
Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring. 
Long they stay'd still — then, pacing at their ease, 
IMoved up and down under the glossy trees; 
But still, as they pursued their warm dry road. 
From Iseult's lips the unbroken story flow'd, 
And still the children listen'd, their blue eyes 
Fix'd on their mother's face in wide surprise ; 
Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side, 
Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide, 
Nor to the snow, which, though 'twas all away 
From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay, 
Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams 
Bore up from where the bright Adantic gleams, 
Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear. 
The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. 
And they would still have listen'd, till dark night 
Came keen and chill down on the heather brighl ; 
But, when the red glow on the sea grew cold, 
And the grey turrets of the castle old 
Look'd sternly through the frosty evening-air. 
Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair. 



isa TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 

And brought her tale to an end, and found the path, 
And led them home over the darkening hcalh. 

And is she happy? Does she see unmoved 
The days in which she might have lived and loved 
Slip without bringing bliss slowly away, 
One after one, to-morrow like to-day? 
Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will — 
Is it this thought which makes her mien so still, 
Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet, 
So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet 
Her children's? She moves slow; her voice alone 
Hath yet an infantine and silver tone. 
But even that comes languidly ; in truth, 
She seems one dying in a mask of youth. 
' And now she will go home, and softly lay 
Her laughing children in their beds, and play 
Awhile with them before they sleep; and then 
She'll light her silver lamp, which "fishermen 
Dragging their nets through the rough waves, afar. 
Along this iron coast, know hke a star, 
And take her broidery-frame, and there she'll sit 
Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it ; 
Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind 
Her children, or to listen to the wind. 
And when the clock peals midnight, she will move 
Her work away, and let her fingers rove 
Across the shaggy brows of Tristram's hound 
Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground; 
Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes 
Fix'd, her slight hands clasp'd on her lap ; then rise, 
And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have told 
Her rosary -beads of ebony tipp'd with gold; 
Then to her soft sleep — and to-morrow 'II be 

To-day's exact repeated t'^^gy. 



TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 153 

Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall. 

The children, and the grey-hair'd seneschal, 

Her women, and Sir Tristram's aged hound, 

Are there the sole companions to be found. 

But these she loves; and noisier life than this 

She would find ill to bear, weak as she is. 

She has her children, too, and night and day 

Is with them ; and the wide heaths where they play, 

The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore. 

The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails. 

These are to her dear as to them ; the tales 

With which this day the children she beguiled 

She gleaned from Breton grandames, when a child, 

In every hut along this sea-coast wild ; 

She herself loves them still, and, when they are told, 

Can forget all to hear them, as of old. 

Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear. 

Not suffering, which shuts up eye and ear 

To all that has delighted them before. 

And lets us be what we were once no more. 

No, we may suffer deeply, yet retain 

Power to be moved and soothed, for all our pain. 

By what of old pleased us, and will again. 

No, 'tis the gradual furnace of the world, 

In whose hot air our spirits are upcurl'd 

Until they crumble, or else grow like steel — 

Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring — • 

Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel, 

But takes away the power— this can avail. 

By drying up our joy in everything. 

To make our former pleasures all seem stale. 

This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fit 

Of passion, which subdues our souls to it, 



154 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 

Till for its sake alone we live and move — 
Call it ambition, or remorse, or love — 
This too can change us wholly, and make seem 
All which we did before, shadow and dream. 

And yet, I s^vear, it angers me to see 
How this fool passion gulls men potently; 
Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest, 
And an unnatural overheat at best. 
How they are full of languor and distress 
Not having it ; which when they do possess, 
They straightway are burnt up with fume and care, 
And spend their lives in posting here and there 
Where this plague drives them ; and have little ease. 
Are furious with themselves, and hard to please. 
Like that bald Caesar, the famed Roman wight, 
Who wept at reading of a Grecian knight 
Who made a name at younger years than he; 
Or that renown'd mirror of chivalry, 
Prince Alexander, Philip's peerless son, 
Who carried the great war from Macedon 
Into the Soudan's realm, and thundered on 
To die at thirty-five in Babylon. 

What tale did Iseult to the children say, 
Under the hollies, that bright winter's day? 

She told them of the fairy-haunted land 

Away the other side of Brittany, 

Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea ; 

Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande, 

Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine 

creeps. 
Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps. 
For here he came with the fay Vivian, 
One April; when the warm days first began. 



TRISTRAM AND ISEULT 155 

He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend, 
On her white palfrey; here he met his end, 
In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day. 
This tale of IMerlin and the lovely fay 
Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clear 
Before the children's fancy him and her. 

Blowing between the stems, the forest-air 

Had loosen'd the brown locks of Vivian's hair, 

Which play'd on her flush'd cheek, and her blue eyes 

Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise. 

Her palfrey's flanks were mired and bathed in sweat, 

P'or they had travell'd far and not stopp'd yet. 

A briar in that tangled wilderness 

Had scored her white right hand, which she allows 

To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress ; 

The other warded off the drooping boughs. 

But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes 

Fix'd full on Merlin's face, her stately prize. 

Her 'haviour had the morning's fresh clear grace, 

The spirit of the woods was in her face ; 

She look'd so witching fair, that learned wight 

Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight, 

And he grew fond, and eager to obey 

His mistress, use her empire as she may. 

They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day 
Peer'd 'twixt the stems ; and the ground broke away, 
In a sloped sward down to a brawling brookr 
And up as high as where they stood to look 
On the brook's farther side was clear; but then 
The underwood and trees began again. 
This open glen was studded thick with thorns 
Then white with blossom; and you saw the horns, 



156 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 

Through last year's fern, of the shy fallow-deer 
Who come at noon down to the water here. 
You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along 
Under the thorns on the green sward ; and strong 
The blackbird whistled from the dingles near, 
And the weird chipping of the woodpecker 
Rang lonelily and sharp ; the sky was fair, 
And a fresh breath of spring stirr'd everywhere. 
Merlin and Vivian stopp'd on the slope's brow, 
To gaze on the light sea of leaf and bough 
Which glistering plays all round them, lone and mild, 
As if to itself the quiet forest smiled. 
Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and here 
The grass was dry and moss'd, and you saw clear 
Across the hollow; white anemonies 
Starr'd the cool turf, and clumps of primroses 
Ran out from the dark underwood behind. 
No fairer resting-place a man could find. 
* Here let us halt,' said Merlin then ; and she 
Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree. 

They sate them down together, and a sleep 
Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep. 
Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose. 
And from her brown-lock'd head the wimple throws, 
And takes it in her hand, and waves it over 
The blossom'd thorn-tree and her sleeping lover. 
Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple round, 
And made a little plot of magic ground. 
And in that daisied circle, as men say. 
Is Merlin prisoner till the judgment-day; 
But she herself whither she will can rove — 
For she was passing weary of his love. 



SAINT BRANDAN. 157 



SAINT BRANDAN. 

Saint Brandan sails the northern main ; 

The brotherhoods of saints are glad. 

He greets them once, he sails again; 

So late ! — such storms ! — The Saint is mad ! 

He heard, across the howling seas, 
Chime convent-bells on wintry nights; 
He saw, on spray -swept Hebrides, 
Twinkle the monastery-lights ; 

But north, still north, Saint Brandan steer'd- 
And now no bells, no convents more ! 
The hurtling Polar lights are near'd, 
The sea without a human shore. 

At last — (it was the Christmas night ; 
Stars shone after a day of storm) — 
He sees float past an iceberg white, 
And on it — Christ ! — a living form. 

That furtive mien, that scowling eye, 

Of hair that red and tufted fell 

It is — Oh, where shall Brandan fly ? — 
The traitor Judas, out of hell ! 

Palsied with terror, Brandan sate; 
The moon was bright, the iceberg near. 
He hears a voice sigh humbly: 'Wait! 
By high permission I am here. 

* One moment wait, thou holy man ! 

On earth my crime, my death, they knew ; 

My name is under all men's ban — 

Ah, tell them of my respite too ! 



158 SAINT B RANDAN. 

' Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night — 
(It was the first after I came, 
Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite, 
To rue my guilt in endless flame) — 

' I felt, as I in torment lay 

'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power, 

An angel touch mine arm, and say : 

Go hence, and cool thyself an hour ! 

'"Ah, whence this mercy, Lord?" I said. 
The Leper recoiled, said he, 
Who ask'd the passers-by for aid^ 
In foppa, and ihy charity. 

'Then I remember'd how I went, 
In Joppa, through the public street, 
One morn when the sirocco spent 
Its storms of dust with burning heat; 

* And in the street a leper sate. 
Shivering with fever, naked, old; 

Sand raked his sores from heel to pate, 
The hot wind fever'd him five-fold. 

* He gazed upon me as I pass'd. 
And murmur'd : Help me, or I die ! — - 
To the poor wretch my cloak 1 cast, 
Saw him look eased, and hurried by. 

' Oh, Brandan, think what grace divine. 
What blessing must full goodness shower, 
When fragment of it small, like mine. 
Hath such inestimable power ! 

' Well-fed, well-clothed, well-friended, I 
Did that chance act of good, that one ! 
Then went my way to kill and lie — 
Forgot my good as soon as done. 



THE NECK AN. 159 

* That germ of kindness, in the womb 
Of mercy caught, did not expire; 
OutHves my guilt, outlives my doom, 
And friends me in the pit of fire. 

' Once every year, when carols wake, 
On earth, the Christmas-night's repose. 
Arising from the sinner's lake, 
I journey to these healing snows. 

' I stanch with ice my burning breast, 
With silence balm my whirling brain. 
O Brandan ! to this hour of rest 
That Joppan leper's ease was pain.' 



Tears started to Saint Brandan's eyes; 
He bow'd his head, he breathed a prayer — 
Then look'd, and lo, the frosty skies 1 
The iceberg, and no Judas there 1 



THE NECKAN. 

In summer, on the headlands, 

The Baltic Sea along, 
Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, 

And sings his plaintive song. 

Green rolls beneath the headlands. 
Green rolls the Baltic Sea; 

And there, below the Neckan's feet, 
His wife and children be. 

He sings not of the ocean. 
Its shells and roses pale ; 

Of earth, of earth the Neckan sings. 
He hath no other tale. 



i6o THE NEC KAN. 

He sits upon the headlands, 

And sings a mournful stave 
Of all he saw and felt on earth, 

Far from the kind sea-wave. 

Sings how, a knight, he wander'd 

By castle, field, and town — 
But earthly knights have harder hearts 

Than the sea-children own. 

Sings of his earthly bridal — 
Priest, knights, and ladies gay. 

' — And who art thou,' the priest began, 
' Sir Knight, who wedd'st to-day ? ' — 

* — I am no knight,' he answered; 

* From the sea-waves I come.' — 
The knights drew sword, the ladies scream'd 

The surpliced priest stood dumb. 

He sings how from the chapel 

He vanish'd with his bride. 
And bore her down to the sea-halls, 

Beneath the salt sea-tide. 

He sings how she sits weeping 
'Mid shells that round her lie. 

* — False Neckan shares my bed,' she weeps; 
' No Christian mate have I.' — 

He sings how through the billows 

He rose to earth again. 
And sought a priest to sign the cross. 

That Neckan Heaven might gain. 

He sings how, on an evening. 

Beneath the birch-trees cool, 
He sate and play'd liis harp of gold. 

Beside the river-pool. 



THE NECKAN. i6i 

Beside the pool sate Neckan — 

Tears fill'd his mild bliie eye. 
On his white mule, across the bridge, 

A cassock'd priest rode by. 

* — Why sitt'st thou there, O Neckan, 

And play'st thy harp of gold ? 
Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves, 

Than thou shalt Heaven behold.' — 

But, lo, the staff, it budded! 

It green'd, it branch'd, it waved. 
* — O ruth of God,' the priest cried out, 

* This lost sea-creature saved !' 

The cassock'd priest rode onwards, 

And vanish'd with his mule; 
But Neckan in the twilight grey 
Wept by the river-pool. 

He wept : * The earth hath kindness, 
The sea, the starry poles ; 

Earth, sea, and sky, and God above- 
But, ah, not human souls 1' 

In summer, on the headlands, 

The Baltic Sea along, 
Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, 

And sings this plaintive song. 



THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. 

Come, dear children, let us away ; 
Down and away below ! 
Now my brothers call from the bay, 
Now the great winds shoreward blow, 
Now the salt tides seaward flow; 

M 



l67 THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. 

Now the wild white horses play, 
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. 
Children dear, let us away ! 
This way, this way ! 

Call her once before you go — 

Call once yet ! 

In a voice that she will know : 

'Margaret! Margaret!' 

Children's voices should be dear 

(Call once more) to a mother's ear; 

Children's voices, wild with pain — 

Surely she will come again ! 

Call her once and come away; 

This way, this .way I 

'Mother dear, we cannot stay! 

The wild white horses foam and fret.' 

Margaret I Margaret ! 

Come, dear children, come away downj 

Call no more ! 

One last look at the white-wall'd town, 

And the little grey church on the windy shore; 

Then come down ! 

She will not come though you call all day; 

Come away, come away ! 

Children dear, was it yesterday 

We heard the sweet bells over the bay? 

In the caverns where we lay, 

Through the surf and through the swell. 

The far-off sound of a silver bell? 

Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, 

Where the winds are all asleep; 

Where the spent lights quiver and gleam. 

Where the salt weed sways in the stream, 



THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. 163 

Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, 
Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; 
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, 
Dry their mail and bask in the brine; 
Where great whales come sailing by, 
Sail and sail, with unshut eye. 
Round the world for ever and aye? 
When did music come this way? 
Children dear, was it yesterday? 

Children dear, was it yesterday 

(Call yet once) that ^e went away? 

Once she sate with you and me, 

On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, 

And the youngest sate on her knee. 

She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well. 

When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. 

She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea ; 

She said : ' I must go, for my kinsfolk pray 

In the little grey church on the shore to-day. 

'Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me ! 

And I lose my poor soul, Merman ! here with thee.' 

I said ; ' Go up, dear heart, through the waves ; 

Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves 1 ' 

She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. 

Children dear, was it yesterday? 
Children dear, were we long alone ? 
' The sea grows stormy, the Httle ones moan ; 
Long prayers,' I said, ' in the world they say ; 
Come 1 ' I said ; and we rose through the surf in the bay. 
We went up the beach, by the sandy down 
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town ; 
Through the narrow paved streets, where. all was still, 
To the little grey church on the windy hill. 
M 2 



1 64 THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. 

From the church came a murmm- of folk at their 

prayers, 
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. 
We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with 

rains, 
And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded 

panes. 
She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: 
' Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here ! 
Dear heart,' I said, 'we are long alone; 
The sea grows stormy, the lijtle ones moan.* 
But, ah, she gave me never a look, 
For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book! 
Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. 
Come away, children, call no more ! 
Come away, come down, call no morel 

Down, down, down! 

Down to the depths of the sea ! 

She sits at her wheel in the humming town. 

Singing most joyfully. 

Hark what she sings : ' O joy, O joy. 

For the humming street, and the child with its toyl 

For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; 

For the wheel where I spun, 

And the blessed light of the sunl' 

And so she sings her fill, 

Singing most joyfully, 

Till the spindle drops from her hand, 

And the whizzing wheel stands still. 

She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, 

And over the sand at the sea; 

And her eyes are set in a stare; 

And anon there breaks a sigh, 



THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. 165 

And anon there drops a tear, 

From a sorrow-clouded eye, 

And a heart sorrow-laden, 

A long, long sigh ; 

For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden 

And the gleam of her golden hair. 

Come away, away children; 
Come children, come down 1 
The hoarse wind blows colder; 
Lights shine in the town. 
She will start from her slumber 
When gusts shake the door; 
She will hear the winds howling, 
Will hear the waves roar. 
We shall see, while above us 
The waves roar and whirl, 
A ceiling of amber, 
A pavement of pearl. 
Singing : ' Here came a mortal, 
But faithless was she ! 
And alone dwell for ever 
The kings of the sea.' 

But, children, at midnight, 
When soft the winds blow. 
When clear falls the moonlight. 
When spring-tides are low; 
When sweet airs come seaward 
From heaths starr'd with broom, 
And high rocks throw mildly 
On the blanch'd sands a gloom ; 
Up the still, glistening beaches, 
Up the creeks we will hie, 



i66 THE FORSAKEN MERMAN, 

Over banks of bright seaweed 

The ebb-tide leaves dry. 

We will gaze, from the sand-hills, 

At the white, sleeping town ; 

At the church on the hill-side — 

And then come back down. 

Singing : ' There dwells a loved one^ 

But cruel is she ! 

She left lonely for ever 

The kings of the sea.' 



SONNETS. 



Austerity of Poetry. 

That son of Italy who tried to blow,' 
Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, 
In his light youth amid a festal throng 
Sate with his bride to see a public show. 

Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow 
Youth like a star ; and what to youth belong — 
Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong. 
A prop gave way ! crash fell a platform ! lo, 

Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay ! 
Shuddering, they drew her garments off — and found 
A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. 

Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse ! young, gay, 
Radiant, adorn'd outside ; a hidden ground 
Of thought and of austerity within. 



A Picture at Newstead. 

What made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell?— 
'Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry 
Stormily sweet, his Titan-agony; 
It was the sight of that Lord Arundel 



1 68 SONNETS. 

Who struck, in heat, his child he loved so well, 
And his child's reason flicker'd, and did die. 
Painted (he will'd it) in the gallery 
They hang; the picture doth the story tell. 

Behold the stern, mail'd father, staff in hand I 
The litde fair-hair'd son, with vacant gaze, 
Where no more lights of sense or knowledge are I 

Methinks the woe, which made that father stand 
Baring his dumb remorse to future days, 
Was woe than Byron's woe more tragic far. 



Rachel. 

I. 

In Paris all look'd hot and like to fade; 
Sere, in the garden of the Tuileries, 
Sere with September, droop'd the chestnut-trees; 
■'Twas dawn, a brougham roll'd through the streets 
and made 

Halt at the white and silent colonnade 

Of the French Theatre. Worn with disease, 

Rachel, with eyes no gazing can appease. 

Sate in the brougham and those blank walls survey'd. 

She follows the gay world, whose swarms have fled 

To Switzerland, to Baden, to the Rhine; 

Why stops she by this empty play-house drear? 

Ah, where the spirit its highest life hath led. 
All spots, match'd with that spot, are less divine; 
And Rachel's Switzerland, her Rhine, is here! 



SONNETS. 169 

II. 

Unto a lonely villa, in a dell 

Above the fragrant warm Proven9al shore. 

The dying Rachel in a chair they bore 

Up the steep pine-plumed paths of the Estrelle, 

And laid her in a stately room, where fell 
The shadow of a marble Muse of yore, 
The rose-crown'd queen of legendary lore, 
Polymnia, full on her death-bed. — 'Twas well I 

The fret and misery of our northern towns, 
In this her life's last day, our poor, our pain, 
Our jangle of false wits, our climate's frowns, 

Do for this radiant Greek-soul'd artist cease; 

Sole object of her dying eyes remain 

The beauty and the glorious art of Greece. 

III. 

Sprung from the blood of Israel's scatter'd race, 
At a mean inn in German Aarau born. 
To forms from antique Greece and Rome uptorn, 
Trick' d out with a Parisian speech and face, 

Imparting life renew'd, old classic grace ; 
Then, soothing with thy Christian strain forlorn, 
A-Kempis! her departing soul outworn. 
While by her bedside Hebrew rites have place — 

Ah, not the radiant spirit of Greece alone 

She had — one power, which made her breast its home ! 

In her, like us, there clash'd, contending powers, 

Germany, France, Christ, Moses, Athens, Rome. 
The strife, the mixture in her soul, are ours; 
Her genius and her glory are her own. 



no SONNETS, 

Worldly Place. 

Even in a palace, life viay he led well! 

So spake the imperial sage, purest of men, 

Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den 

Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell, 

Our freedom for a little bread we sell, 

And drudge under some foolish master's ken 

Who rates us if we peer outside our pen — 

Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell? 

Even in a palace I On his truth sincere, 

Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came; 

And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame 

Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, 

I'll stop, and say : ' There were no succour here I 

The aids to noble life are all within.' 



East London. 

'TwAS August, and the fierce sun overhead 

Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, 

And the pale weaver, through his windows seen 

In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited. 

I met a preacher there I knew, and said: 

* 111 and o'erwork'd, how fare you in this scene ? '^ 

' Bravely 1 ' said he ; ' for I of late have been 

Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, the living bread' 

O human soul! as long as thou canst so 

Set up a mark of everlasting light. 

Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, 

To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam — 

Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night! 

Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home. 



SONNETS. 17 X 

West London. 
Crouch'd on the pavement, close by Belgrave Square, 
A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied. 
A babe was in her arms, and at her side 
A girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare. 

Some labouring men, whose work lay somewhere there, 
Pass'd opposite; she touch'd her girl, who hied 
Across, and begg'd, and came back satisfied. 
The rich she had let pass with frozen stare. 

Thought I : * Above her state this spirit towers ; 
She will not ask of aliens, but of friends, 
Of sharers in a common human fate. 

She turns from that cold succour, which attends 
The unknown little from the unknowing great, 
And points us to a better time than ours.' 



East and West. 
In the bare midst of Anglesey they show 
Two springs which close by one another play; 
And, ' Thirteen hundred years agone,' they say, 
'Two saints met often where those waters flow* 

One came from Penmon westward, and a glow 
Whiten'd his face from the sun's fronting ray; 
Eastward the other, from the dying day. 
And he with unsunn'd face did always go.' 

Seiriol the Bright, Kybi the Dark ! men said. 
The seer from the East was then in light, 
The seer from the West was then in shade. 

Ah ! now 'tis changed. In conquering sunshine bright 
The man of the bold West now comes array'd; 
He of the mystic East is touch'd with night. 



I7a SONNETS. 

The Better Part. 
Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man, 
How angrily thou spurn'st all simpler fare ! 
' Christ/ some one says, ' was human as we are ; 
No judge eyes us from Heaven, our sin to scan ; 

We live no more, when we have done our span,' — 
'Well, then, for Christ,' thou answerest, 'who can care? 
From sin, which Heaven records not, why forbear ? 
Live we like brutes our life without a plan 1 ' 

So answerest thou ; but why not rather say : 
'Hath man no second life? — Pitch this one high/ 
Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin -to see? — 
3fore strictly, the?i, the inward judge obey! 
Was Christ a man like us ? — Ah / let us try ■ 
1/ we then, too, can be such 7nen as he J' 



The Divinity. 
'Yes, write it in the rock,' Saint Bernard said, 
' Grave it on brass with adamantine pen ! 
'Tis God himself becomes apparent, when 
God's wisdom and God's goodness are display'd, 

For God of these his attributes is made.' — 
Well spake the impetuous Saint, and bore of men 
The suffrage captive; now, not one in ten 
Recalls the obscure opposer he outweigh'd.® 

God^s wisdom and God's goodness I — Ay, but fools 
Mis-define theer till God knows them no more. 
Wisdom and goodness, they are God /-ryfhsit schools 

Have yet so much as heard this simpler lore? 
This no Saint preaches, and this no Church rules; 
'Tis in the desert, now and heretofore. 



SONNETS. 173 

Immortality. 
Foil'd by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn, 
We leave the brutal world to take its way, 
And, Patience ! in afiother life, we say, 
The world shall be ikrust down, and we up-hor7ie. 

And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn 
The world's poor, routed leavings ? or will they, 
Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day. 
Support the fervours of the heavenly morn ? 

No, no! the energy of life may be 
Kept on after the grave, but not begun; 
And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife. 

From strength to strength advancing — only he. 
His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, 
Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life. 



The Good Shepherd with the Kid. 

He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save. 
So rang TertuUian's sentence, on the side 
Of that uripitying Phrygian sect which cried : ^^ 
' Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave, 

Who sins, once wash'd by the baptismal wave.' — 
So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sigh'd, 
The infant Church ! of love she felt the tide 
Stream on her from her Lord's yet recent grave. 

And then she smiled ; and in the Catacombs, 
With eye suffused but heart inspired true, 
On those walls subterranean, where she hid 

Her head 'mid ignominy, death, and tombs, 
She her Good Shepherd's hasty image drew — 
And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid. 



174 SONNETS. 

Monicds Last PrayerP- 

' Ah could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be !' — 
Care not for thai, and lay me where I /all I 
Everywhere heard will be the judgmeiit-call ; 
But at God's altar, oh I remember me. 

Thus Monica, and died in Italy. 
Yet fervent had her longing been, through all 
Her course, for home at last, and burial 
With her own husband, by the Libyan sea. 

Had been ! but at the end, to her pure soul 
All tie with all beside seem'd vain and cheap, 
And union before God the only care. 

Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole. 
Yet we her memory, as she pray'd, will keep, 
Keep by this : Life in God, and union there I 



LYRIC AND DRAMATIC 
POEMS. 

SWITZERLAND 

1. Meeting. 

Again I see my bliss at hand, 

The town, the lake are here; 

My Marguerite smiles upon the strand,*'^ 

Unalter'd with the year. 

I know that graceful figure fair, 
That cheek of languid hue; 
I know that soft, enkerchief'd hair, 
And those sweet eyes of blue. 

Again I spring to make my choice; 
Again in tones of ire 
I hear a God's tremendous voice: 
* Be counsell'd, and retire.' 

Ye guiding Powers who join and part, 
What would ye have with me? 
Ah, warn some more ambitious heart. 
And let the peaceful be I 



176 SWITZERLAND. 

2. Parting. 

Ye storm-winds of Autumn I 

Who rush by, who shake 

The window, and ruffle 

The gleam-lighted lake; 

Who cross to the hill-side 

Thin-sprinkled with farms, 

Where the high woods strip sadly 

Their yellowing arms — 

Ye are bound for the mountains I 

Ah ! with you let me go 

Where your cold, distant barrier, 

The vast range of snow, 

Through the loose clouds lifts dimly 

Its white peaks in air — 

How deep is their stillness 1 

Ah, would I were there 1 

But on the stairs what voice is this I hear. 
Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear? 
Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn 
Lent it the music of its trees at dawn? 
Or was it from some sun-fleck'd mountain-brook 
That the sweet voice its upland clearness took? 

Ah ! it comes nearer — 

Sweet notes, this way I 

Harkl fast by the window 

The rushing winds go. 

To the ice-cumber'd gorges, 

The vast seas of snow ! 

There the torrents drive upward 

Their rock-strangled hum; 



SWITZERLAND. 177 

There the avalanche thunders 
The hoarse torrent dumb. 
— I come, O ye mountains I 
Ye torrents, I come 1 

But who is this, by the half-open'd door, 
Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor? 
The sweet blue eyes — the soft, ash-colour'd hair — 
The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear — 
The lovely lips, with their arch smile that tells 
The unconquer'd joy in which her spirit dwells — 

Ah ! they bend nearer — 

Sv/eet lips, this wayl 

Hark! the wind rushes past us I 

Ah ! with that let me go 

To the clear, waning hill-side, 

Unspotted by snow, 

There to watch, o'er the sunk vale, 

The frore mountain-wall. 

Where the niched snow-bed sprays down 

Its powdery fall. 

There its dusky blue clusters 

The aconite spreads; 

There the pines slope, the cloud-strips 

Hung soft in their heads. 

No life but, at moments, 

The mountain-bee's hum. 

— I come, O ye mountains I 

Ye pine-woods, I come I 

Forgive me 1 forgive me 1 

Ah, Marguerite, fain 
Would these arms reach to clasp thee I 

But seel 'tis in vain. 

N 



178 SWITZERLAND, 

In the void air, towards thee, 
My stretch'd arms are cast; 

But a sea rolls between us — 
Our different past! 

To the lips, ah! of others 
Those lips have been prest, 

And others, ere I was, 

Were strain'd to that breast; 

Far, far from each other 
Our spirits have grown. 

And what heart knows another? 
Ah 1 who knows his own ? 

Blow, ye winds! lift me with youl 

I come to the wild. 
Fold closely, O Nature ! 

Thine arms round thy child. 

To thee only God granted 

A heart ever new — 
To all always open, 

To all always true. 

Ah ! calm me, restore me ; 

And dry up my tears 
On thy high mountain-platforms, 

Where morn first appears; 

Where the white mists, for ever, 
Are spread and upfurl'd — 

In the stir of the forces 
Whence issued the world. 



SWITZERLAND, 179 



3. A Farewell. 



My horse's feet beside the lake, 

Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay, 

Sent echoes through the night to wake 

Each glistening strand, each heath-fringed bay. 

The poplar avenue was pass'd, 

And the roof'd bridge that spans the stream; 

Up the steep street I hurried fast, 

Led by thy taper's starlike beam. 

I came ! I saw thee rise ! — the blood 
Pour'd flushing to thy languid cheek. 
Lock'd in each other's arms we stood. 
In tears, with hearts too full to speak. 

Days flew ; — ah, soon I could discern 

A trouble in thine alter'd air 1 

Thy hand lay languidly in mine. 

Thy cheek was grave, thy speech grew rare. 

I blame thee not! — this heart, I know, 
To be long loved was never framed; 
For something *in its depths doth glow 
Too strange, too restless, too untamed. 

And women — things that live and move 
Mined by the fever of the soul — 
They seek to find in those they love 
Stern strength, and promise of control. 

They ask not kindness, gentle ways; 
These they themselves have tried and known; 
They ask a soul which never sways 
With the blind gusts that shake their own. 

N 2 



i8o SWITZERLAND. 

I too have felt the load I bore 
In a too strong emotion's sway; 
I too have wish'd, no woman more, 
This starting, feverish heart away. 

I too have long'd for trenchant force, 
. And will like a dividing spear; 
Have praised the keen, unscrupulous course, 
Which knows no doubt, which feals no fear. 

But in the world I learnt, what there 
Thou too wilt surely one day prove, 
That will, that energy, though rare, 
Are yet far, far less rare than lore. 

Go, then ! — till time and fate impress 
This truth on thee, be mine no morel 
They will! — for thou, I feel, not less 
Than I, wast destined to this love. 

We school our manners, act our parts — 
But He, who sees us through and through, 
Knows that the bent of both our hearts 
Was to be gentle, tranquil, true. 

And though we wear out life, alasl 
Distracted as a homeless wind, , 
In beating where we must not pass. 
In seeking what we shall not find; 

Yet we shall one day gain, life past, 
Clear prospect o'er our being's whole; 
Shall see ourselves, and learn at last 
Our true affinities of soul. 

We shall not then deny a course 
To every thought the mass ignore; 
We shall not then call hardness force. 
Nor lightness wisdom any more. 



SWITZERLAND. 1 8 : 

Then, in the eternal Father's smile, 
Our soothed, encouraged souls will dare 
To seem as free from pride and guile, 
As good, as generous, as they are. 

Then we shall know our friends ! — though much 
Will have been lost — the help in strife. 
The thousand sweet, still joys of such 
As hand in hand face earthly life — 

Though these be lost, there will be yet 
A sympathy august and pure; 
Ennobled by a vast regret, 
And by contrition seal'd thrice sure. 

And we, whose w^ays were unlike here, 
May then more neighbouring courses ply; 
May to each other be brought near, 
And greet across infinity. 

How sweet, unreach'd by earthly jars. 
My sister! to maintain with thee 
The hush among the shining stars, 
The calm upon the moonlit sea! 

How sweet to feel, on the boon air, 
All our unquiet pulses cease ! 
To feel that nothing can impair 
The gentleness, the thirst for peace — 

The gentleness too rudely hurl'd 
On this wild earth of hate and fear; 
The thirst for peace a raving world 
Would never let us satiate here. 



182 SWITZERLAND. 

4. Isolation. To Marguerite 

We were apart; yet, day by day, 

I bade my heart more constant be. 

I bade it keep the world away, 

And grow a home for only thee ; 

Nor fear'd but thy love likewise grew, 

Like mine, each day, more tried, more true. 

The fault was grave ! I might have known, 
What far too soon, alas ! I learn'd — 
The heart can bind itself alone, 
And faith may oft be unrelurn'd. 
Self-sway'd our feelings ebb and swell — 
Thou lov'st no more ; — Farewell ! Farewell I 

Farewell 1 — and thon, thou lonely heart. 

Which never yet without remorse 

Even for a moment didst depart 

From thy remote and sphered course 

To haunt the place where passions reign-^ 

Back to thy solitude again 1 

Back I with the conscious thrill of shame 
Which Luna felt, that summer-night. 
Flash through her pure immortal frame, 
When she forsook the starry height 
To hang over Endymion's sleep 
Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep. 

Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved 
How vain a thing is mortal love, 
Wandering in Heaven, far removed; 
But thou hast long had place to prove 
This truth — to prove, and make thine own: 
'Thou hast been, shall be, art, alone.' 



SWITZERLAND. 183 

Or, if not quite alone, yet they 
Wliich touch thee are unmating things — 
Ocean and clouds and night and day; 
Lorn autumns and triumphant springs; 
And life, and others' joy and pain, 
And love, if love, of happier men. 

Of happier men — for they, at least, 

Have dream d two human hearts might blend 

In one, and were through faith released 

From isolation without end 

Prolong'd; nor knew, although not less 

Alone than thou, their loneliness. 

5. To Marguerite. Continued. 
Yes ! in the sea of life enisled. 
With echoing straits between us thrown, 
Dotting the shoreless watery wild, 
We mortal millions live alo7ie. 
The islands feel the enclasping flow. 
And then their endless bounds they know. 

But when the moon their hollows lights, 
And they are swept by balms of spring, 
And in their glens, on starry nights, 
The nightingales divinely sing ; 
And lovely notes, from shore to shore. 
Across the sounds and channels pour — 

Oh ! then a longing like despair 

Is to their farthest caverns sent; 

For surely once, they feel, we were 

Parts of a single continent I 

Now round us spreads the watery plain — 

Oh might our marges meet again 1 



i84 SWITZERLAND. 

Who order'd, that their longing's fire 
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd? 
Who renders vain their deep desire? — 
A God, a God their severance ruled 1 
And bade betwixt their shores to be 
The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea. 

6. Absence. 

In this fair stranger's eyes of grey 
Thine eyes, my love ! I see. 
I shiver; for the passing day 
Had borne me far from thee. 

This is the curse of life! that not 
A nobler, calmer train 
Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot 
Our passions from our brain; 

But each day brings its petty dust 
Our soon-choked souls to fill, 
And we forget because we must 
And not because we will. 

I struggle towards the light; and ye, 
Once-long'd-for storms of love ! 
If with the light ye cannot be, 
I bear that ye remove. 

I struggle towards the light — but oh, 
While yet the night is chill, 
Upon time's barren, stormy flow, 
Stay with me, Marguerite, still! 



SWITZERLAND. 185 

7. The Terrace at Berne. 

(composed ten years after the preceding.) 

Ten years! — and to my waking eye 
Once more the roofs of Berne appear; 
The rocky banks, the terrace high, 
The stream I — and do I Hnger here ? 

The clouds are on the Oberland, 
The Jungfrau snows look faint and far; 
But bright are those green fields at hand, 
And through those fields comes down the Aar, 

And from the blue twin-lakes it comes, 
Flows by the town, the church-yard fair; 
And 'neath the garden-walk it hums, 
The house ! — and is my Marguerite there ? 

Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush 
Of startled pleasure floods thy brow. 
Quick through the oleanders brush, 
And clap thy hands, and cry: ^Tis thou! 

Or hast thou long since wander'd back. 
Daughter of France ! to France, thy home ; 
And flitted down the flowery track 
Where feet like thine too lightly come? 

Doth riotous laughter now replace 
Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare, 
Thy cheek's soft hue, and fluttering lace 
The kerchief that enwound thy hair? 

Or is it over? — art thou dead? — 
Dead' — and no warning shiver ran 
Across my heart, to say thy thread 
Of life was cut, and closed thy span I 



1 86 SWITZERLAND. 

Could from earth's ways that figure slight 
Be lost, and I not feel 'twas so? 
Of that fresh voice the gay delight 
Fail from earth's air. and I not know? 

Or shall I find thee still, but changed, 
But not the Marguerite of thy prime? 
With all thy being re-arranged, — 
Pass'd through the crucible of time; 

With spirit vanish'd, beauty waned, 
And hardly yet a glance, a tone, 
A gesture — anything — retain'd 
Of all that was my Marguerite's own? 

I will not know ! For wherefore try. 
To things by mortal course that live, 
A shadowy durability. 
For which they were not meant, to give? 

Like driftwood spars, which meet and pass 

Upon the boundless ocean-plain. 

So on the sea of life, alas 1 

Man meets man — meets, and quits again. 

I knew it when my life was young; 
I feel it still now youth is o'er. 
— The mists are on the mountain hun^. 
And Marguerite I shall see no more. 



THE STRAYED REVELLER. 187 



THE STRAYED REVELLER. 

THE PORTICO OF CIRCe's PALACE. EVENING. 

A Youth. Circe. 

The Youth. 

Faster, faster, 

Circe, Goddess, 

Let the wild, thronging train. 
The bright procession 
Of eddying forms. 
Sweep through my soul I 

Thou standest, smiling 

Down on me! thy right arm, 

Lean'd up against the column ther«j, 

Props thy soft cheek; 

Thy left holds, hanging loosely. 

The deep cup, ivy- cinctured, 

1 held but now. 

Is it then evening 
So soon? I see, the night-dews, 
Cluster'd in thick beads, dim 
The agate brooch-stones 
On thy white shoulder; 
The cool night-wind, too. 
Blows through the portico, 
Stirs thy hair, Goddess, 
Waves thy white robel 



1 88 THE STRAYED REVELLER, 

Circe. 
Whence art thou, sleeper? 

The Youth. 

When the white dawn first 

Through the rough fir- planks 

Of my hut, by the chestnuts, 

Up at the valley-head, 

Came breaking, Goddess ! 

I sprang up, I threw round me 

My dappled fawn-skin; 

Passing out, from the wet turf, 

Where they lay, by the hut door, 

I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, 

All drench'd in dew — 

Came sw ft down to join 

The rout early gather'd 

In the town, round the temple, 

lacchus' white fane 

On yonder hill. 

Quick I pass'd, following 

The wood-cutters' cart-track 

Down the dark valley ; — I saw 

On my left, through the beeches, 

Thy palace. Goddess, 

Smokeless, empty ! 

Trembling, I enter'd; beheld 

The court all silent. 

The Hons sleeping. 

On the altar this bowl. 

I drank, Goddess ! 

And sank down here, sleeping, 

On the steps of thy portico. 



THE STRAYED REVELLER. 189 

Circe. 

Foolish boy I Why tremblest thou? 

Thou lovest it, then, my wine? 

Wouldst more of it? See, how glows, 

Through the delicate, flush'd marble, 

The red, creaming liquor, 

Strown with dark seeds 1 

Drink, then ! I chide thee not, 

Deny thee not my bowl. 

Come, stretch forth thy hand, then — so ! 

Drink — drink again I 

The Youth. 

Thanks, gracious one ! 
Ah, the sweet fumes again I 
More soft, ah me, 
More subtle-winding 
Than Pan's flute-music ! 
Faint — faint ! Ah me. 
Again the sweet sleep 1 

Circe. 

Hist ! Thou — within there I 
Come forth, Ulysses ! 
Art tired with hunting? 
While we range the woodland, 
See what the day brings. 

Ulysses. 

Ever new magic I 
Hast thou then lured hither, 
Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, 
The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, 



1 90 THE STRAYED REVELLER. 

lacchus' darling — 

Or some youth beloved of Pan, 

Of Pan and the Nymphs? 

That he sits, bending downward 

His white, delicate neck 

To the ivy-wreathed marge 

Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves 

That crown his hair. 

Falling forward, mingling 

With the dark ivy-plants — 

His • fawn-skin, half untied, 

Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, 

That he sits, overweigh'd 

By fumes of wine and sleep, 

So late, in thy portico? 

What youth, Goddess, — what guest 

Of Gods or mortals? 

Circe, 

Hist I he wakes ! 

I lured him not hither, Ulysses. 

Nay, ask him 1 

The Youth. 

Who speaks? Ah, who comes forth 
To thy side. Goddess, from within? 
How shall I name him? 
This spare, dark-featured. 
Quick-eyed stranger? 
Ah, and I see too 
. His sailor's bonnet. 
His short coat, travel-tarnish'd. 
With one arm bare ! — 
Art thou not he, whom fame 



THE STRAYED REVELLER. 191 

This long time rumours 

The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves ? 

Art thou he, stranger? 

The wise Ulysses, 

Laertes' son? 

Ulysseu 

I am Ulysses. 

And thou, too, sleeper? • 

Thy voice is sweet. 

It may be thou hast followed 

Through the islands some divine bard, 

By age taught many things, 

Age and the Muses ; 

And heard him delighting 

The chiefs and people 

In the banquet, and learn'd his songs, 

Of Gods and Heroes, 

Of war and arts. 

And peopled cities, 

Inland, or built 

By the grey sea — If so, then hail I 

I honour and welcome thee. 

The Youth, 

The Gods are happy. 
They turn on all sides 
Their shining eyes, 
And see below them 
The earth and men. 

They see Tiresias 
Sitting, staff in hand. 
On the warm, grassy 
Asopus bank, 



rgJ THE STRAYED REVELLER. 

His robe drawn over 
His old, sightless head, 
Revolving inly 
The doom of Thebes. 

They see the Centaurs 
In the upper glens 
Of Pelion, in the streams, 
Where red-berried ashes fringe 
The clear -brown shallow pools. 
With streaming flanks, and heads 
Rear'd proudly, snuffing 
The mountain wind. 

They see the Indian 

Drifting, knife in hand, 

His frail boat moor'd to 

A floating isle thick-matted 

With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants. 

And the dark cucumber. 

He reaps, and stows them, 

Drifting — drifting ; — round him, 

Round his green harvest-plot, 

Flow the cool lake-waves, 

The mountains ring them. 

They see the Scythian 

On the wide stepp, unharnessing 

His wheel'd house at noon. 

He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal — 

Mares' milk, and bread 

Baked on the embers ; — all around 

The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd 

With saff"ron and the yellow hollyhock 

And flag-leaved iris-flowers. 



THE STRAYED REVELLER. 193 

Sitting in his cart 

He makes his meal; before him, for long miles, 

Alive with bright green lizards, 

And the springing bustard-fowl, 

The track, a straight black line, 

Furrows the rich soil ; here and there 

Clusters of lonely mounds 

Topp'd with rough-hewn, 

Grey, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer 

The sunny waste. 

They see the ferry 

On the broad, clay-laden 

Lone Chorasmian stream; — thereon, 

With snort and strain, 

Two horses, strongly swimming, tow 

The ferry-boat, with woven ropes 

To either bow 

Firm-harness'd by the mane; a chief, 

With shout and shaken spear, 

Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern 

The cowering merchants in long robes 

Sit pale beside their wealth 

Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops, 

Of gold and ivory, 

Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, 

Jasper and chalcedony, 

And milk-barr'd onyx-stones. 

The loaded boat swings groaning 

In the yellow eddies ; 

The Gods behold them. 

They see the Heroes 
Sitting in the dark ship 
On the foamless, long-heaving, 
o 



194 I'HE STRAYED REVELLER. 

Violet sea, 

At sunset nearing "■ 

The Happy Islands. 

These things, Ulysses, 
The wise bards also 
Behold and sing. 
But oh, what labour! 
O prince, what painl 

They too can see 
Tiresias; — but the Gods, 
Who give them vision, 
Added this law : 
That they should bear too 
His groping blindness, 
His dark foreboding, 
His scorn'd white hairs; 
Bear Hera's anger 
Through a life lengthen'd 
To seven ages. 

They see the Centaurs 

On Pelion ; — then they feel, 

They too, the maddening wine 

Swell their large veins to bursting ; in wild pain 

They feel the biting spears 

Of the grim Lapithse, and Theseus, drive. 

Drive crashing through their bones; they feel 

High on a jutting rock in the red stream 

Alcmena's dreadful son 

Ply his bow; — such a price 

The Gods exact for song: 

To become what we sing. 

They see the Indian 

On his mountain ;lake; — but squalls 



THE STRAYED REVELLER. 195 

Make their skiflf reel, and worms 

In the unkind spring have gnawn 

Their melon-harvest to the heart. — They see 

The Scythian; — but long frosts 

Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp, 

Till they too fade like grass; they crawl 

Like shadows forth in spring. 

They see the merchants 

On the Oxus stream; — but care 

Must visit first them too, and make them pale. 

Whether, through whirling sand, 

A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst 

Upon their caravan; or greedy kings, 

In the wall'd cities the way passes through, 

Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs, 

On some great river's marge, 

Mown them down, far from home. 

They see the Heroes 

Near harbour; — but they share 

Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes, 

Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy ; 

Or where the echoing oars 

Of Argo first 

Startled the unknown sea. 

The old Silenus 
Came, lolling in the sunshine. 
From the dewy forest-coverts. 
This way, at noon. 
Sitting by me, while his Fauns 
Down at the water-side 
Sprinkled and smoothed 
His drooping garland, 
He told me these things. 
o a 



196 THE STRAYEI^ REVELLER, 

But I, Ulysses, 
Sitting on the warm steps, 
Looking over the valley, 
All day long, have seen, 
Without pain, without labour, 
Sometimes a wild-hair'd Maenad^ 
Sometimes a Faun with torches — 
And sometimes, for a moment, 
Passing through the dark stems 
Flowing-robed, the beloved. 
The desired, the divine, 
Beloved lacchus. 

Ah, cool night- wind, tremulous stars! 

Ah, glimmering, water, 

Fitful earth-murmur. 

Dreaming woods ! 

Ah, golden-hair'd, strangely smiling Goddess, 

And thou, proved, much enduring, 

Wave-toss'd Wanderer! 

Who can stand still? 

Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me — 

The cup again ! 

Faster, faster, 

O Circe, Goddess, 

Let the wild, thronging train, 

The bright procession 

Of eddying forms, 

Sweep through my soul I 



FRAGMENT OF AN 'ANTIGONE: 197 

FRAGMENT OF AN 
ANTIGONE, 

The Chorus. 

Well hath he done who hath seized happiness ! 
For little do the all-containing hours, 

Though opulent, freely give. 

Who, weighing that life well 

Fortune presents unpray'd, 
Declines her ministry, and carves his own ; 

And, justice not infringed. 
Makes his own welfare his unswerved-from law. 

He does well too, who keeps that clue the mild 
Birth-Goddess and the austere Fates first gave. 

For from the day when these 

Bring him, a weeping child, 

First to the light, and mark 
A country for him, kinsfolk, and a home, 

Unguided he remains, 
Till the Fates come again, this time with death. 

In little companies, 

And, our own place once left, 
Ignorant where to stand, or whom to avoid. 
By city and household group'd, we live ; and many 
shocks 

Our order heaven-ordain'd 

Must every day endure : 
Voyages, exiles, hates, dissensions, wars. 



198 FRAGMENT OF AN 'ANTIGONE' 

Besides what waste he makes, 
The all-liated, order-breaking, 
Without friend, city, or home, 
Death, who dissevers all. 



Him then I praise, who dares 

To self-selected good 
Prefer obedience to the primal law, 
Which consecrates the ties of blood; for these, 
indeed. 

Are to the Gods a care; 

That touches but himself. 
For every day man may be link'd and loosed 

With strangers; but the bond 

Original, deep-inwound, 

Of blood, can he not bind, 

Nor, if Fate binds, not bear. 

But hush! Hsemon, whom Antigone, 
Robbing herself of life in burying. 
Against Creon's law, Polynices, 
Robs of a loved bride — pale, imploring. 

Waiting her passage, 
Forth from the palace hitherward comes. 

Hcemon. 

No, no, old men, Creon I curse not! 
I weep, Thebans, 
One than Creon crueller far ! 
For he, he, at least, by slaying her, 
August laws doth mightily vindicate; 
But thou, too-bold, headstrong, pitiless I 



FRAGMENT OF AN 'ANTIGONE* 199 

Ah me ! — honourest more than thy lover, 

O Antigone ! 
A dead, ignorant, thankless corpse. 

The Chorus. 

Nor was the love untrue 
Which the Dawn- Goddess bore 
To that fair youth she erst, 
Leaving the salt sea-beds 

And coming flush'd over the stormy frith 
Of loud Euripus, saw — 
Saw and snatch'd, wild with love. 
From the pine-dotted spurs 
Of Parnes, where thy waves, 
Asopus ! gleam rock-hemm'd — 

The Hunter of the Tanagrsean Field." 

• But him, in his sweet prime, 

By severance immature, 

By Artemis' soft shafts, 

She, though a Goddess born, 
Saw in the rocky isle of Delos die. 

Such end o'ertook that love. 

For she desired to make 

Immortal mortal man. 

And blend his happy life, 

Far from the Gods, with hers; 
To him postponing an eternal law. 

Hcemon. 

But like me, she, wroth, complaining, 
Succumb'd to the envy of unkind Gods; 
And, her beautiful arms unclasping, 
Her fair youth unwillingly gave. 



200 FRAGMENT OF AN 'ANTIGONE* 

The Chorus. 

Nor, though enthroned too high 
To fear assault of envious Gods, 
His beloved Argive seer would Zeus retain 
From his appointed end 

In this our Thebes; but when 
His flying steeds came near 
To cross the steep Ismenian glen, 
The broad earth open'd, and whelm'd them and himj 
And through the void air sang 
At large his enemy's spear. 

And fain would Zeus have saved his tired son 

Beholding him where the Two Pillars stand 
O'er the sun-redd«n'd western straits,^* 

Or at his work in that dim lower world. 
Fain would he have recall'd 
The fraudulent oath which bound 

To a much feebler wight the heroic man. 

But he preferr'd Fate to his strong desire. 
Nor did there need less than the burning pile 

Under the towering Trachis crags. 
And the Spercheios vale, shaken with groans, 

And the roused Maliac gulph, 

And scared OEtsean snows, 
To achieve his son's deliverance, O my child! 



CHORUS OF A ' DEJANEIRA: 

FRAGMENT OF CHORUS OF A 
DEJANEIRA. 

O FRIVOLOUS m'nd of man, 

Light ignorance, and hurrying, unsure thoughts ! 

Though man bewails you not, 

How / bewail you 1 

Little in your prosperity 

Do you seek counsel of the Gods." 

Proud, ignorant, self-adored, you live alone. 

In profound silence stern, 

Among their savage gorges and cold springs, 

Unvisited remain 

The great oracular shrines. 

Thither in your adversity 

Do you betake yourselves for light, 

But strangely misinterpret all you hear. 

For you will not put on 

New hearts with the enquirer's holy robe, 

And purged, considerate minds. 

And him on whom, at the end 

Of toil and dolour untold. 

The Gods have said that repose 

At last shall descend undisturb'd — 

Him you expect to behold 

In an easy old age, in a happy home; 

No end but this you praise. 

But him, on whom, in the primfe 
Of life, with vigour undimm'd. 
With unspent mind, and a soul 
Unworn, undebased, undecay'd, 



202 EARLY DEATH AND FAME. 

Mournfully grating, the gates 

Of the city of death have for ever closed- 

Him, I count him, well-starr'd. 



EARLY DEATH AND FAME. 

For him who must see many years, 

I praise the life which slips away 

Out of the light and mutely ; which avoids 

Fame, and her less fair followers, envy, strife. 

Stupid detraction, jealousy, cabal. 

Insincere praises; which descends 

The quiet mossy track to age. 

But, when immature death 

Beckons too early the guest 

From the half-tried banquet of life, 

Young, in the bloom of his days; 

Leaves no leisure to press, 

Slow and surely, the sweets 

Of a tranquil life in the shade — 

Fuller for him be the hours ! 

Give him emotion, though pain ! 

Let him live, let him feel : / have lived. 

Heap up his moments with lifel 

Triple his pulses with famel 



PHILOMELA. 



Hark! ah, the nightingale — 

The tawny-throated ! 

Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst 1 

What triumph ! hark ! — what pain I 



PHILOMELA. 



203 



O wanderer from a Grecian shore, 

Still, after many years, in distant lands, 

Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain 

That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain — 

Say, will it never heal? 

And can this fragrant lawn 

With its cool trees, and night, 

And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 

And moonshine, and the dew, 

To thy rack'd heart and brain 

Aflford no balm? 

Dost thou to-night behold. 

Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, 
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? 
Dost thou again peruse 
With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes 
The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame? 
Dost thou once more assay 
Thy flight, and feel come over thee, 
Poor fugitive, the feathery change 
Once more, and once more seem to make resound 
With love and hate, triumph and agony. 
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale? 
Listen, Eugenia — 

How thick the bursts come crowding through the 
leaves ! t 

Again — thou hearest? 
Eternal passion 1 
Eternal pain! 



204 URANIA. 



URANIA. 

She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh. 
While we for hopeless passion die; 
Yet she could love, those eyes declare, 
Were but men nobler than they are. 

Eagerly once her gracious ken 

Was turn'd upon the sons of men; 

But light the serious visage grew — 

She look'd, and smiled, and saw them through. 

Our petty souls, our strutting wits, 
Our labour'd, puny passion-fits — 
Ah, may she scorn them still, till we 
Scorn them as bitterly as she 1 

Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers, 
One of some worthier race than ours ! 
One for whose sake she once might prove 
How deeply she who scorns can love;, 

His eyes be like the starry lights — 
His voice like sounds of summer nights— 
In all his lovely mien let pierce 
The magic of the universe 1 

Afid she to him will reach her hand. 
And gazing in his eyes will stand. 
And know her friend, and weep for glee, 
And cry: Lo7tg, long I've look'd /or thee; 

Then will she weep ; with smiles, till then, 
Coldly she mocks the sons of men. 
Till then, her lovely eyes maintain 
Their pure, unwavering, deep disdain. 



EUPHROSYNE, 205 



EUPHROSYNE. 

I MUST not say that she was true, 
Yet let me say that she was fair; 
And they, that lovely face who view, 
They should not ask if truth be there. 

Truth — what is truth? Two bleeding hearts, 
Wounded by men, by fortune tried, 
Outwearied with their lonely parts. 
Vow to beat henceforth side by side. 

The world to them was stern and drear, 
Their lot was but to weep and moan ; 
Ah, let them keep their faith sincere, 
For neither could subsist alone ! 

But souls whom some benignant breath 
Hath charm'd at birth from gloom and care, 
These ask no love, these plight no faith, 
For they are happy as they are. 

The world to them may homage make. 
And garlands for their forehead weave; 
And what the world can give, they take — 
But they bring more than they receive. 

They shine upon the world — Their ears 
To one demand alone are coy; 
They will not give us love and tears, 
They bring us light and warmth and joy. 

On one she smiled, and he was blest ; 
She smiles elsewhere — we make a din ! 
But 'twas not love which heaved her breast, 
Fair child ! — it was the bliss within. 



2o6 CALAIS SANDS. 



CALAIS SANDS. 

A THOUSAND knights have rein'd their steeds 
To watch this line of sand-hills run, 
Along the never-silent strait, 
To Calais glittering in the sun; 

To look toward Ardres' Golden Field 
Across this wide aerial plain. 
Which glows as if the Middle Age 
Were gorgeous upon earth again. 

Oh, that to share this famous scene, 

I saw, upon the open_ sand, 

Thy lovely presence at my side, 

Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand I 

How exquisite thy voice would come, 
My darling, on this lonely air ! 
How sweetly would the fresh sea-breeze 
Shake loose some band of soft brown hair 1 

Yet now my glance but once hath roved 
O'er Calais and its famous plain ; 
To England's cliffs my gaze is turn'd, 
O'er the blue strait mine eyes I strain. 

Thou comest ! Yes ! the vessel's cloud 
Hangs dark upon the rolling sea. 
Oh, that yon sea-bird's wings were mine. 
To win one instant's glimpse of thee ! 

I must not spring to grasp thy hand, 
To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye ; 
But I may stand far off, and gaze, 
And watch thee pass unconscious by. 



FADED LEAVES. 207 

And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts, 
Mixt with the idlers on the pier. — 
Ah, might I always rest unseen. 
So I might have thee always near! 

To-morrow hurry through the fields 
Of Flanders to the storied Rhine ! 
To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall close 
Beneath one roof, my queen ! with mine. 



FADED LEAVES. 

1. The River. 

Still glides the stream, slow drops the boat 

Under the rusding poplars' shade ; 

Silent the swans beside us float — 

None speaks, none heeds ; ah, turn thy head ! 

Let those arch eyes now softly shine, 
That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland ; 
Ah, let them rest, those eyes, on mine ! 
On mine let rest that lovely hand! 

My pent-up tears oprpress my brain, 
My heart is swoln with love unsaid. 
Ah, let me weep, and tell my pain, 
And on thy shoulder rest my head! 

Before I die — before the soul. 
Which now is mine, must re-attain 
Immunity from my control. 
And wander round the world again; 



2o8 FADED LEAVES. 

Before this teased o'erlabour'd heart 
For» ever leaves its vain employ, 
Dead to its deep habitual smart, 
And dead to hopes of future joy. 

2. Too Late. 

Each on his own strict line we move, 
And some find death ere they find love ; 
So far apart their lives are thrown 
From the twin soul that halves their own. 

And sometimes, by still harder fate, 

The lovers meet, but meet too late. 

- — Thy heart is mine! — True, true! ah, true I 

— Then, love, thy hand ! — Ah no ! adieu J 

3. Separatiojt. 

Stop I — not to me, at this bitter departing, 
Speak of the sure consolations of time ! 

Fresh be the wound, still-renew'd be its smarting, 
So but thy image endure in its prime ! 

But, if the stedfast commandment of Nature 
Wills that remembrance should always decay — 

If the loved form and the deep-cherish'd feature 
Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away — 

Me let no half-effaced memories cumber 1 
Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee! 

Deep be the darkness and still be the slumber — 
Dead be the past and its phantoms to me! 

Then, when we meet, and thy look strays toward me, 
Scanning my face and the changes wrought there : 
Who, let me say, is this straiiger regards me, 
With ike grey eyes, and the lovely brown hair ? 



FADED LEAVES. 209 

4. O71 the Rhine. 

Vain is the effort to forget. 
Some day I shall be cold, I know, 
As is the eternal moon-lit snow 
Of the high Alps, to which I go — 
But ah, not yet, not yet ! 

Vain is the agony of grief. 
*Tis true, indeed, an iron knot 
Ties straitly up from mine thy lot, 
And were it snapt — thou lov'st me not! 
But is despair relief? 

Awhile let me with thought have done. 
And as this brimm'd unwrinkled Rhine, 
And that far purple mountain-line, 
Lie sweetly in the look divine 
Of the slow-sinking sun; 

So let me lie, and, calm as they. 
Let beam upon my inward view 
Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue — 
Eyes too expressive to be blue, 
Too lovely to be grey. 

Ah, Quiet, all things feel thy balm! 
Those blue hills too, this river's flow. 
Were restless once, but long ago. 
Tamed is their turbulent youthful glow; 
Their joy is in their calm. 

5. Longing. 

Come to me in my dreams, and then 
By day I shall be well again ! 
For then the night will more than pay 
The hopeless longing of the day. 



aio SELF-DECEPTION. 

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times, 
A messenger from radiant climes, 
And smile on thy new world, and be 
As kind to others as to me 1 

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth, 
Come now, and let me dream it truth; 
And part my hair, and kiss my brow, 
And say : My love I why sufferesi thou ? 

Come to me in my dreams, and then 
By day I shall be well again 1 
For then the night will more than pay 
The hopeless longing of the day. 



DESPONDENCY.. 

The thoughts that rain their steady glow 
Like stars on Hfe's cold sea, 
Which others know, or say they know — 
They never shone for me. 

Thoughts light, like gleams, my spirit's sky, 
But they will not remain. 
They light me once, they hurry by; 
And never come again. 



SELF-DECEPTION. 

Say, what blinds us, that we claim the gloiy 
Of possessing powers not our share? 
■ — Since man woke on earth, he knows his story, 
But, before we woke on earth, we were. 



DOVER BEACH. aj 

Long, long since, undower'd yet, our spirit 
Roam'd, ere birth, the treasuries of God; 
Saw the gifts, the powers it might inherit, 
Ask'd an outfit for its earthly road. 

Then, as now, this tremulous, eager being 
Strain'd and long'd and grasp'd each gift it saw ; 
Then, as now, a Power beyond our seeing 
Staved us back, and gave our choice the law. 

Ah, whose hand that day through Heaven guided 
Man's new spirit, since it was not we? 
Ah, who sway'd our choice, and who decided 
What our gifts, and what our wants should be? 

For, alas ! he left us each retaining 

Shreds of gifts which he refused in full; 

Still these waste us with their hopeless straining, 

Still the attempt to use them proves them null. 

And on earth we wander, groping, reeling ; 
Powers stir in us, stir and disappear. 
Ah I and he, who placed our master-feeling, 
Fail'd to place that master-feeling clear. 

We but dream we have our wish'd-for powers, 
Ends we seek we never shall attain. 
Ah ! some power exists there, which is ours ? 
Some end is there, we indeed may gain? 



DOVER BEACH. 

The sea is calm to-night. 

The tide is full, the moon lies fair 

Upon the straits ; — on the French coast the light 

Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, 

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil ba-'. 

P 2 



21 a DOVER BEACH. 

Come to the window, sweet is the night-air 1 

Only, from the long line of spray 

Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd sand, 

Listen ! you hear the grating roar 

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, 

At their return, up the high strand, 

Begin, and cease, and then again begin, 

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 

The eternal note of sadness in. 

Sophocles long ago 

Heard it on the JEgaean, and it brought 

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 

Of human misery ; we 

Find also in the sound a thought. 

Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 

The sea of faith 

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore 

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. 

But now I only hear 

Its melancholy, long, Avithdrawing roar. 

Retreating, to the breath 

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear 

And naked shingles of the world. 

Ah, love, let us be true 

To one another ! for the world, which seems 

To lie before us like a land of dreams. 

So various, so beautiful, so new, 

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, 

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; 

And we are here as on a darkling plain 

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight. 

Where ignorant armies clash by night. 



GROWING OLD. 213 

GROWING OLD. 

What is it to grow old? 

Is it to lose the glory of the form, 

The lustre of the eye ? 

Is it for beauty to forgo her wreath? 

— Yes, but not this alone. 

Is it to feel our strength — 

Not our bloom only, but our strength — decay? 

Is it to feel each limb 

Grow stiffer, every function less exact, 

Each nerve more loosely strung ? 

Yes, this, and more ; but not, 

Ah ! 'tis not what in youth we dream'd 'twould be. 

'Tis not to have our life 

Mellow'd and soften'd as with sunset-glow, 

A golden day's decline. 

'Tis not to see the world 

As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, 

And heart profoundly stirr'd; 

And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, 

The years that are no more. 

It is to spend long days 

And not once feel that we were ever young; 

It is to add, immured 

In the hot prison of the present, month 

To month with weary pain. 

It is to suffer this, 

And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel. 

Deep in our hidden heart 

Festers the dull remembrance of a change, 

But no emotion — none. 



214 PIS-ALLER, 

It is — last stage of all — 

When we are frozen up within, and quite 

The phantom of ourselves, 

To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost, 

Which blamed the living man. 



THE PROGRESS OF POESY. 
A Variation. 

Youth rambles on life's arid mount, 
And strikes the rock, and finds the vein, 
And brings the water from the fount, 
The fount which shall not flow again. 

The man mature with labour chops 
For the bright stream a channel grand, 
And sees not that the sacred drops 
Ran off and vanish'd out of hand. 

And then the old man totters nigh, 
And feebly rakes among the stones. 
The mount is mute, the channel dry; 
And down he lays his weary bones. 



PIS ALLER. 



'Man is blind because of sin. 
Revelation makes him sure; 
Without that, who looks within. 
Looks in vain, for all 's obscure.* 

Nay, look closer into man 1 
Tell me, can you find indeed 
Nothing sure, no moral plan 
Clear prescribed, without your creed? 



A NAMELESS EPITAPH. .215 

' No, I nothing can perceive ! 
Without that, all 's dark for men. 
That, or nothing, I believe.' — 
For God's sake, believe it then I 



THE LAST WORD. 

Creep into thy narrow bed, 

Creep, and let no more be said I j 

Vain thy onset ! all stands fast. 

Thou thyself must break at last. 

Let the long contention cease ! 
Geese are swans, and swans are geese. 
Let them have it how they will! 
Thou art tired; best be still. 

They out-talk'd th^e, hiss'd thee, tore thee? 
Better men fared thus before thee; 
Fired their ringing shot and pass'd, 
Hotly charged — and sank at last. 

Charge once more, then, and be dumb! 
Let the victors, when they come, 
When the forts of folly fall, 
Find thy body by the wall! 



A NAMELESS EPITAPH. 

Ask not my name, O friend ! 

That Being only, which hath known each man 

From the beginning, can 

Remember each unto the end. 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

A DRAMATIC POEM. 



PERSONS. 



Empedocles. 
f Pausanias, a Physician. 

Callicles, a young Harp-player. 

The Scene of the Poem is an Motint Et7ia ; at first in the forest region, 
afterwards on the snviniit of the vzou7itain. 



ACT I, SCENE I. 
Morning. A Pass in the forest region of Etna. 

Callicles. 
{Alone, resting on a rock by the path.) 
The mules, I think, will not be here this hour; 
They feel the cool wet turf under their feet 
By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes 
In which they have toil'd all night from Catana, 
And scarcely will they budge a yard. O Pan, 
How gracious is the mountain at this hour ! 
A thousand times have I been here alone 
Or with the revellers from the mountain-towns. 
But never on so fair a morn ; — the sun 
Is shining on the brilliant mountain-crests, 
And on the highest pines ; but farther down, 
Here in the valley, is in shade; the sward 
Is dark, and on the stream the mist still hangs; 
One sees one's foot-prints crush'd in the wet grass, 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 217 

One's breath curls in the air; and on these pines 
That cUmb from the stream's edge, the long grey tufts, 
Which the goats love, are jewell'd thick with dew. 
Here will I stay till the slow litter comes 
I have my harp too — that is well. — Apollo! 
What mortal could be sick or sorry here? 
I know not in what mind Empedocles, 
Whose mules I follow'd, may be coming up, 
But if, as most men say, he is half mad 
With exile, and with brooding on his wrongs, 
Pausanias, his sage friend, who mounts with him, 
Could scarce have lighted on a lovelier cure. 
The mules must be below, far down, I hear 
Their tinkling bells, mix'd with the song of birds, 
Rise faintly to me — now it stops! — Who's here? 
Pausanias 1 and on foot? alone? 

Pausanias, 

And thou, then? 
I left thee supping with Peisianax, 
With thy head full of wine, and thy hair crown'd. 
Touching thy harp as the whim came on thee, 
And praised and spoil'd by master and by guests 
Almost as much as the new dancing-girl. 
Why hast thou follow'd us? 

Callicles. 

The night was hot. 
And the feast past its prime ; so we slipp'd out, 
Some of us, to the portico to breathe ; — 
Peisianax, thou know'st, drinks late; — and then. 
As I was lifting my soil'd garland off, 
I saw the mules and litter in the court, 
And in the litter sate Empedocles; 
Thou, too, wast with him. Straightway I sped home ; 



2i8 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

I saddled my white mule, and all night long 
Through the cool lovely country follow'd you, 
Pass'd you a little since as morning dawn'd, 
And have this hour sate by the torrent here, 
Till the slow mules should climb in sight again. 
And now? 

Pausanias, 

And now, back to the town with speed! 
Crouch in the wood first, till the mules have pass'd ; 
They do but halt, they will be here anon. 
Thou must be viewless to Empedocles ; 
Save mine, he must not meet a human eye. 
One of his moods is on him that thou know'st ; 
I think, thou wouldst not vex him. 

Callicles. 

No — and yet 
I would fain stay, and help thee tend him. Once 
He knew me well, and would oft notice me; 
And still, I know not how, he draws me to him, 
And I could watch him with his proud sad face, 
His flowing locks and gold-encircled brow 
And kingly gait, for ever; such a spell 
In his severe looks, such a majesty 
As drew of old the people after him, 
In Agrigentum and Olympia, 
When his star reign'd, before his banishment. 
Is potent still on me in his decline. 
But oh ! Pausanias, he is changed of late ; 
There is a settled trouble in his air 
Admits no momentary brightening now, 
And when he comes among his friends at feasts, 
'Tis as an orphan among prosperous boys. 
Thou know'st of old he loved this harp of mine, 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 219 

When first he sojourn'd with Peisianax ; 
He is now always moody, and I fear him ; 
But I would serve him, soothe him, if I could, 
Dared one but try. 

Pausanias. 

Thou wast- a kind child ever! 
He loves thee, but he must not see thee now. 
Thou hast indeed a rare touch on thy harp, 
He loves that in thee, too; — there was a time 
(But that is pass'd), he would have paid thy strain 
With music to have drawn the stars from heaven. 
He has his harp and laurel with him still, 
But he has laid the use of music by, 
And all which might relax his settled gloom. 
Yet thou may'st try thy playing, if thou wilt — 
But thou must keep unseen; follow us on, 
But at a distance ! in these solitudes. 
In this clear mountain-air, a voice will rise, 
Though from afar, distinctly ; it may soothe him. 
Play when we halt, and, when the evening comes 
And I must leave him (for his pleasure is 
To be left musing these soft nights alone 
In the high unfrequented mountain-spots), 
Then watch him, for he ranges swift and far, 
Sometimes to Etna's top, and to the cone; 
But hide thee in the rocks a great way down, 
And try thy noblest strains, my Callicles, 
With the sweet night to help thy harmony! 
Thou wilt earn my thanks sure, and perhaps his. 

Callicles. 

More than a day and night, Pausanias, 
Of this fair summer-weather, on these hills. 
Would I bestow to help Empedocles. 



220 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

That needs no thanks; one is far better here 
Than hi the broiling city in these heats. 
But tell me, how hast thou persuaded him 
In this his present fierce, man-hating mood, 
To bring thee out with him alone on Etna? 

Pmisanias. 
Thou hast heard all men speaking of Pantheia, 
The woman who at Agrigentum lay 
Thirty long days in a cold trance of death, 
And whom Empedocles call'd back to life. 
Thou art too young to note it, but his power 
Swells with the swelling evil of this time, 
And holds men mute to see where it will rise. 
He could stay swift diseases in old days, 
Chain madmen by the music of his lyre, 
Cleanse to sweet airs the breath of poisonous streams, 
And in the mountain-chinks inter the winds. 
This he could do of old; but now, since all 
Clouds and grows daily worse in Sicily, 
Since broils tear us in twain, since this new swarm 
Of sophists has got empire in our schools 
Where he was paramount, since he is banish'd, 
And lives a lonely man in triple gloom — 
He grasps the very reins of life and death. 
I ask'd him of Pantheia yesterday, 
When we were gather'd with Peisianax, 
And he made answer, I should come at night 
" On Etna here, and be alone with him. 
And he would tell me, as his old, tried friend. 
Who still was faithful, what might profit me; 
That is, the secret of this miracle. 

CallicJcs. 
Bah 1 Thou a doctor ! Thou art superstitious. 
Simple Pausanias, 'twas no miracle ! 



I 

EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 221 

Pantheia. for I know her kinsmen well, 

Was subject to these trances from a girl. 

Empedocles would say so, did he deign ; 

But he still lets the people, whom he scorns, 

Gape and cry ivizard at him, if they list. 

But thou, thou art no company for him I 

Thou art as cross, as soured as himself! 

Thou hast some wrong from thine own citizens, 

And then thy friend is banish'd, and on that, 

Straightway thou fallest to arraign the times, 

As if the sky was impious not to fall. 

The sophists are no enemies of his ; 

I hear, Gorgias, their chief, speaks nobly of him, 

As of his gifted master, and once friend. 

He is too scornful, too high-wrought, too bitter. 

'Tis not the times, 'tis not the sophists vex him; 

There is some root of suffering in himself, 

Some secret and unfollow'd vein of woe. 

Which makes the time look black and sad to him. 

Pester hirn not in this his sombre mood 

With questionings about an idle tale, 

But lead him through the lovely mountain-paths, 

And keep his mind from preying on itself, 

And talk to him of things at hand and common, 

Not miracles ! thou art a learned man, 

But credulous of fables as a girl. 

Paiisanias. 
And thou, a boy whose tongue outruns his knowledge, 
And on whose lightness blame is thrown away. 
Enough of this! I see the Htter wind 
Up by the torrent-side, under the pines. 
I must rejoin Empedocles. Do thou 
Crouch in the brushwood till the mules have pass'd; 
Then play thy kind part well. Farewell till night I 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 



SCENE II. 

Noon. A Glen on the highest skirls of the tvoody region 
of Etna. 

Empedocles. Pausanias. 

Paiisanias. 
The noon is hot. When we have cross'd the stream, 
We shall have left the woody tract, and come 
Upon the open shoulder of the hill. 
See how the giant spires of yellow bloom 
Of the sun-loving gentian, in the heat,^^ 
Are shining on those naked slopes like flame 1 
Let us rest here; and now, Empedocles, 
Pantheia's history I \A harp-note below is heard. 

Empedocles, 
Hark I what sound was that 
Rose from below? If it were possible, 
And we were not so far from human haunt, 
I should have said that some one touch'd a harp. 
Hark! there again! 

Pausanias. 

'Tis the boy Callicles, 
The sweetest harp-player in Catana. 
He is for ever coming on these hills, 
In summer, to all country-festivals, 
With a gay revelling band ; he breaks from them 
Sometimes, and wanders far among the glens. 
But heed him not, he will not mount to us; 
I spoke with him this morning. Once more, therefore, 
Instruct me of Pantheia's story, Master, 
As I have pray'd thee. 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 223 

Einpedocles. 

That? and to what end? 

Pausanias. 
It is enough that all men speak of it. 
But I will also say, that when the Gods 
Visit us as they do with sign and plague, 
To know those spells of thine which stay their hand 
Were to live free from terror. 

Empedocles. 

Spells? Mistrust them! 
Mind is the spell which governs earth and heaven ; 
Man has a mind with which to plan his safety — 
Know that, and help thyself! 

Pausanias. 

But thine own words? 
' The wit and counsel of man was never clear, • 
Troubles confound the little wit he has.' 
Mind is a light which the Gods mock us with. 
To lead those false who trust it. 

\The harp sounds again. 

Empedocles. 

Hist! once more! 
Listen, Pausanias! — Ay, 'tis Callicles; 
I know those notes among a thousand. Hark I 

Callicles. 

{Sings imseett, from below.) 

The track winds down to the clear stream, 
To cross the sparkling shallows; there 
The cattle love to gather, on their way 
To the high mountain-pastures, and to stay, 



2 24 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA, 

Till the rough cow-herds drive them past, 

Knee-deep in the cool ford ; for 'tis the last 

Of all the woody, high, well-water'd dells 

On Etna; and the beam 

Of noon is broken there by chestnut-boughs 

Down its steep verdant, sides; the air 

Is freshen'd by the leaping stream, which throws 

Eternal showers of spray on the moss'd roots 

Of trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shoots 

Of ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bells 

Of hyacinths, and on late anemonies, 

That muffle its wet banks ; but glade, 

And stream, and sward, and chestnut-trees, 

End here; Etna beyond, in the broad glare 

Of the hot noon, without a shade, 

Slope behind slope, up to the peak, lies bare ; 

The peak, round which the white clouds play. 

In such a glen, on such a day. 
On Pelion, on the grassy ground, 
Chiron, the aged Centaur, lay. 
The young Achilles standing by. 
The Centaur taught him to explore 
The mountains ; where the glens are dry 
And the tired Centaurs come to rest. 
And where the soaking springs abound 
And the straight ashes grow for spears, 
And where the hill-goats come to feed 
And the sea-eagles build their nest. 
He show'd him Phthia far away, 
And said : O boy, I taught this lore 
To Peleus, in long distant years ! 
He told him of the Gods, the stars, 
The tides; — and then of mortal wars, 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 225 

And of the life which heroes lead 
Before they reach the Elysian place 
And rest in the immortal mead; 
And all the wisdom of his race. 



The music below ceases, and Empedocles speaks, 
accompanying himself zti a solemn manner on 
his harp. 

The out-spread world to span 
A cord the Gods first slung, 
And then the soul of man 
There, like a mirror, hung, 
And bade the winds through space impel the gusty toy. 

Hither and thither spins 
The wind-borne, mirroring soul, 
A thousand glimpses wins. 
And never sees a whole ; 
Looks once, and drives elsewhere, and leaves its 
last employ. 

The Gods laugh in their sleeve 
To watch man doubt and fear, 
Who knows not what to believe 
Since he sees nothing clear, 
And dares stamp nothing false where he finds 
nothing sure. 

Is this, Pausanias, so ? 
And can our souls not strive. 
But with the winds must go, 
And hurry where they drive? 
Is Fate indeed so strong, man's strength indeed so 
poor? 

Q 



226 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

I will not judge. That man, 
Howbeit, I judge as lost, 
Whose mind allows a plan. 
Which would degrade it most; 
And he treats doubt the best who tries to see least ill. 

Be not, then, fear's blind slave 1 
Thou art my friend; to thee, 
All knowledge that I have, 
All skill I wi^eld, are free. 
Ask not the latest news of the last miracle, 

Ask not what days and nights 

In trance Pantheia lay, 

But ask how thou such sights 

May'st see without dismay; 
Ask what most helps when known, thou son of 
Anchitus 1 

What? hate, and awe, and shame 

Fill thee to see our time; 

Thou feelest thy soul's frame 

Shaken and out of chime? 
What? life and chance go hard with thee too, as 
with us; 

Thy citizens, 'tis said, 

Envy thee and oppress, 

Thy goodness no men aid, 
- All strive to make it less ; 
Tyranny, pride, and lust, fill Sicily's abodes; 

Heaven is with earth at strife, 
Signs make thy soul afraid, 
The dead return to life. 
Rivers are dried, winds stay'd ; 
Scarce can one think in calm, so threatening are 
the Gods; 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 2^ 

And we feel, day and night, 
The burden of ourselves — 
Well, then, the wiser wight 
In his own bosom delves, 
And asks what ails him so, and gets what cure he can. 

The sophist sneers : Fool, take 
Thy pleasure, right or wrong. 
The pious wail : Forsake 
A world these sophists throng. 
Be neither saint nor sophist-led, but be a man! 

These hundred doctors try 
To preach thee to their school. 
We have the truth! they cry; 
And yet their oracle, 
Trumpet it as they will, is but the same as thine. 

Once read thy own breast right, 
And thou hast done with fears; 
Man gets no other light, 
Search he a thousand years. 
Sink in thyself! there ask what ails thee, at that shrine. 

What makes thee struggle and rave? 
Why are men ill at ease.'— 
'Tis that the lot they have 
Fails their own will to please ; 
For man would make no miirmuring, were his will 
obey'd. 

And why is it, that still 
Man with his lot thus fights? — 
'Tis that he makes this will 
The measure of his 7'ights, ' - 

And believes Nature outraged if his will's gainsaid. 
Q 2 



2a8 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

Couldst thou, Pausanias, learn 
How deep a fault is this ; 
Couldst thou but once discern 
Thou hast no right to bliss, 
No title from the Gods to welfare and repose; 

Then thou wouldst look less mazed 
Whene'er of bliss debarr'd, 
Nor think the Gods were crazed 
When thy own lot went hard. 
But we are all the same — the fools of our own woes ! 

For, from the first faint morn 
Of life, the thirst for bliss 
Deep in man's heart is born ; 
And, scepdc as he is, 
He fails not to judge clear if this be quench'd or no. 

Nor is that thirst to blame. 
Man errs not that he deems 
His welfare his true aim. 
He errs because he dreams 
The world does but exist that welfare to bestow. 

We mortals are no kings 
For each of whom to sway 
A new-made world up-springs, 
Meant merely for his play ; 
No, we are strangers here ; the world is from of old. 

In vain our pent wills fret, 
And would the world subdue. 
Limits we did not set 
Condition all we do ; 
Born into life we are, and life must be our mould. 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 229 

Born into life ! — man grows 
Forth from his parents' stem, 
And blends their bloods, as those 
Of theirs are blent in them ; 
So each new man strikes root into a far fore-time. 

Born into life ! — we bring 
A bias with us here, . 
And, when here, each new thing 
Affects us we come near; 
To tunes we did not call our being must keep chime. 

Born into life ! — in vain, 
Opinions, those or these, 
Unalter'd to retain 
The obstinate mind decrees; 
Experience, like a sea, soaks all-effacing in. 

Born into life ! — who lists 
May what is false hold dear, 
And for himself make mists 
Through which to see less clear ; 
The world is what it is, for all our dust and din. 

Born into life ! — 'tis we, 
And not the world, are new; 
Our cry for bliss, our plea. 
Others have urged it too — 
Our wants have all been felt, our errors made before. 

No eye could be too sound 
To observe a world so vast. 
No patience too profound 
To sort what 's here amass'd ; 
How man may here best live no care too great to 
explore. 



230 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

But we — as some rude guest 
Would change, where'er he roam, 
The manners there profess' d 
To those he brings from home — 
We mark not the world's course, but would have it 
take ours. 

The world's course proves the terms 
On which man wins content ; 
Reason the proof confirms — 
We spurn it, and invent 
A false course for the world, and for ourselves, 
false powers. 

Riches we wish to get, 
Yet remain spendthrifts still ; 
We would have health, and yet 
Still use our bodies ill; 

Bafflers of our own prayers, from youth to life's last scenes. 

• 

We would have inward peace. 
Yet will not look within ; 
We would have misery cease. 
Yet will not cease from sin; 
We want all pleasant ends, but will use no harsh means ; 

We do not what we ought, 
What we ought not, we do, 
And lean upon the thought 
That chance will bring us through; 
But our own acts, for good or ill, are mightier powers. 

Yet, even when man forsakes 
All sin, — is just, is pure, 
Abandons all which makes 
His welfare insecure, — 
Other existences there are, that clash with ours. 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 231 

Like us, the lightning-fires 
Love to have scope and play; 
The stream, like us, desires 
An unimpeded way ; 
Like us, the Libyan wind delights to roam at large. 

Streams will not curb their pride 
The just man not to entomb, 
Nor lightnings go aside 
To give his virtues room; 
Nor is that wind less rough which blows a good 
man's barge. 

Nature, with equal mind, 
Sees all her sons at play; 
Sees man control the wind. 
The wind sweep man away; 
Allows the proudly-riding and the foundering bark. 

And, lastly, though of ours 
No weakness spoil our lot, 
Though the non-human powers 
Of Nature harm us not, 
The ill deeds of other men make often our life dark. 

What were the wise man's plan ? — 
Through this sharp, toil-set life, 
To fight as best he can, 
And win what '% won by strife. — 
But we an easier way to cheat our pains have found. 

Scratch'd by a fall, with moans 
As children of weak age 
Lend life to the dumb stones 
Whereon to vent their rage. 
And bend their little fists, and rate the senseless ground; 



233 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

So, loath to suflfer mute, 
We, peopling the void air, 
Make Gods to whom to impute 
The ills we ought to bear; 
With God and Fate to rail at, suffering easily. 

Yet grant — as sense long miss'd 
Things that are now perceived, 
And much may still exist 
Which is not yet believed — 
Grant that the world were full of Gods we cannot see ; 

All things the world which fill 
Of but one stuff are spun. 
That we who rail are still, 
With what we rail at, one; 
One with the o'er-labour'd Power that through the 
breadth and length 

Of earth, and air, and sea. 
In men, and plants, and stones, 
Hath toil perpetually. 
And travails, pants, and moans; 
Fain would do all things well, but sometimes fails 
in strength. 

And patiently exact 
This universal God 
Alike to any act 
Proceeds at any nod. 
And quietly declaims the cursings of himself. 

This is not what man hates, 
Yet he can curse but this. 
Harsh Gods and hostile Fates 
Are dreams ! this only is — 
Is everywhere ; sustains the wise, the foolish elf. 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 333 

Nor only, in the intent 
To attach blame elsewhere, 
Do we at will invent 
Stern Powers who make their care 
To embitter human life, malignant Deities; 

But, next, we would reverse 
The scheme ourselves have spun, 
And what we made to curse 
We now would lean upon, 
And feign kind Gods who perfect what man vainly tries. 

Look, the world tempts our eye, 
And we would know it all! 
We map the starry sky, 
We mine this earthen ball. 
We measure the sea-tides, we number the sea-sands ; 

We scrutinise the dates 
Of long-past human things, 
The bounds of effaced states, 
The lines of deceased kings ; 
We search out dead men's words, and works of dead 
men's hands ; 

We shut our eyes, and muse 
How our own minds are made, 
What springs of thought they use, 
How righten'd, how betray'd — 
And spend our wit to name what most employ unnamed. 

But still, as we proceed, 
The mass swells more and more 
Of volumes yet to read, 
Of secrets yet to explore. 
Our hair grows grey, our eyes are dimm'd, our heat 
is tamed J 



234 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA, 

We rest our faculties, 
And thus address the Gods: 
' True science if there is. 
It stays in your abodes ! 
Man's measures cannot mete the immeasurable All. 

'You only can take in 
The world's immense design; 
Our desperate search was sin. 
Which henceforth we resign, 
Sure only that your mind sees all things which befal.' 

Fools ! That in man's brief term 
He cannot all things view. 
Affords no ground to affirm 
That there are Gods who do; 
Nor does being weary prove that he has where to rest. 

Again. — Our youthful blood 
Claims rapture as its right; 
The world, a rolling flood 
Of newness and delight, 
Draws in th^ enamour'd gazer to its shining breast; 

Pleasure, to our hot grasp,. 
Gives flowers after flowers; 
With passionate warmth we clasp 
Hand after hand in ours; 
Now do we soon perceive how fast our youth is spent. 

At once our eyes grow clear 1 
We see, in blank dismay, 
Year posting after year, 
Sense after sense decay; 
Our shivering heart is mined by secret discontent; 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 235 

Yet still, in spite of truth, 
In spite of hopes entomb'd. 
That longing of our youth . 
Burns ever unconsumed, 
Still hungrier for delight as delights grow more rare. 

We pause; we hush our heart, 
And thus address the Gods : 
' The world hath fail'd to impart 
The joy our youth forebodes, 
Fail'd to fill up the void which in our breasts we bear. 

'Changeful till now, we still 
Look'd on to something new ; 
Let us, with changeless will, 
Henceforth look on to you. 
To find with you the joy we in vain here require!' 

Fools ! That so often here 
Happiness mock'd our prayer, 
I think, might make us fear 
A like event elsewhere; 
Make us, not fly to dreams, but moderate desire. 

And yet, for those who know 
Themselves, who wisely take 
Their way through life, and bow 
To what they cannot break. 
Why should I say that life need yield but moderate bUss? 

Shall we, with temper spoil' d. 
Health sapp'd by living ill, 
And judgment all embroil'd 
By sadness and self-will, 
Shall we judge what for man is not true bliss or is? 



236 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

Is it so small a thing 
To have enjoy'd the sun, 
To have lived light in the spring, 
To have loved, to have thought, to have done; 
To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling 
foes — 

That we must feign a bliss 
Of doubtful future date. 
And, vsrhile we dream on this, 
Lose all our present state, 
And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose? 

Not much, I know, you prize 
What pleasures may be had. 
Who look on life with eyes 
Estranged, like mine, and sad; 
And yet the village-churl feels the truth more than you, 

Who's loath to leave this life 
Which to him little yields — 
His hard-task'd sunburnt wife, 
His often-labour'd fields, 
The boors with whom he talk'd, the country-spots he 
knew. 

But thou, because thou hear'st 
Men scoff at Heaven and Fate, 
Because the Gods thou fear'st 
Fail to make blest thy state, 
Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are 1 

I say: Fear not! Life still 
Leaves human effort scope. 
But, since life teems with ill, 
Nurse no extravagant hope; 
Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then 
despair I 



E31PED0CLES ON ETNA. 337 

A long pause. At the end of it the notes of a harp 
below are again heard, and Callicles sings : — 
Far, far from here, 
The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay 
Among the green lUyrian hills; and there 
The sunshine in the happy glens is fair, 
And by the sea, and in the brakes. 
The grass is cool, the sea-side air 
Buoyant and fresh, the mountain-flowers 
More virginal and sweet than ours. 
And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes, 
Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia, 
Bask in the glens or on the warm sea-shore. 
In breathless quiet, after all their ills; 
Nor do they see their country, nor the place 
Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning, hills. 
Nor the unhappy palace of their race, 
Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more. 

There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes I 

They had stay'd long enough to see. 

In Thebes, the billow of calamity 

Over their own dear children roll'd, 

Curse upon curse, pang upon pang, 

For years, they sitting helpless in their home, 

A grey old man and woman; yet of old 

The Gods had to their marriage come. 

And at the banquet all the Muses sang. 

Therefore they did not end their days 

In sight of blood ; but were rapt, far away, 

To where the west-wind plays. 

And murmurs of the Adriatic come 

To those untrodden mountain-lawns ; and there 

Placed safely in changed forms, the pair 



238 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

Wholly forget their first sad life, and home, 
And all that Theban woe, and stray • 
For ever through the glens, placid and dumb. 

Einpedocles. 
That was my harp-player again! — where is he? 
Down by the stream? 

Pausa7iias. 
Yes, Master, in the wood. 

Empedocles. 
He ever loved the Theban story well 1 
But the day wears. Go now, Pausanias, 
For 1 must be alone. Leave me one mule; 
Take down with thee the rest to Catana. 
And for young Callicles, thank him from me ; 
Tell him, I never fail'd to love his lyre; 
But he must follow me no more to-night. 

Pausanias. 
Thou wilt return to-morrow to the city? 

Empedocles. 
Either to-morrow or some other day, 
In the sure revolutions of the world, 
Good friend, I shall revisit Catana. 
I have seen many cities in my time, 
Till mine eyes ache with the long spectacle, 
And I shall doubtless see them all again ; 
Thou know'st me for a wanderer from of old. 
Meanwhile, stay me not now. Farewell, Pausanias ! 
He departs on his way up the mountain. 
Pausanias {alone). 
1 dare not urge him further — he must go ; 
But he is strangely wrought ! — I will speed back 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 339 

And bring Peisianax to him from the city; 
His counsel could once soothe him. But, Apollo ! 
How his brow lighten'd as the music rose ! 
Callicles must wait here, and play to him ; 
I saw him through the chestnuts far below. 
Just since, down at the stream. — Ho I Callicles ! 

He descends, calling. 



ACT II. 

Evening. The Sumtnit of Etna. 

Empedocles. 

Alone ! — 
On this charr'd, blacken'd, melancholy waste, 
Crown'd by the awful peak, Etna's great mouth. 
Round which the sullen vapour rolls — alone 1 
Pausanias is far hence, and that is well. 
For I must henceforth speak no more with man. 
He has his lesson too, and that debt 's paid ; 
And the good, learned, friendly, quiet man, 
May bravelier front his life, and in himself 
Find henceforth energy and heart. But I, — 
The weary man, the banish'd citizen — 
Whose banishment is not his greatest ill, 
Whose weariness no energy can reach, 
And for whose hurt courage is not the cure— 
What should I do with life and living more? 

No, thou art come too late, Empedocles! 
And the world hath the day, and must break thee, 
Not thou the world. With men thou canst not live, 
Their thoughts, their ways, their wishes, are not thine ; 
And being lonely thou art miserable, 



240 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

For something has impair'd thy spirit's strength, 

And dried its self-sufficing fount of joy. 

Thou canst not live with men nor with thyself — 

O sage ! O sage ! — Take then the one way left ; 

And turn thee to the elements, thy friends, 

Thy well-tried friends, thy willing ministers. 

And say : Ye servants, hear Empedocles, 

Who asks this final service at your hands! 

Before the sophist-brood hath overlaid 

The last spark of man's consciousness with words; 

Ere quite the being of man, ere quite the world 

Be disarray'd of their divinity; 

Before the soul lose all her solemn joys, 

And awe be dead, and hope impossible. 

And the soul's deep eternal night come on — 

Receive me, hide me, quench me, take me homel 

He advances to the edge of the crater. Smoke 
and fire break forth with a loud noise, and 
Callicles is heard below singing : — 

The lyre's voice is lovely everywhere; 
In the court of Gods, in the city of men, 
And in the lonely rock-strewn mountain-glen, 
In the still mountain air. 

Only to Typho it sounds hatefully; 

To Typho only, the rebel o'erthrown. 

Through whose heart Etna drives her roots of stone. 

To imbed them in the sea. 

Wherefore dost thou groan so loud? 
Wherefore do thy nostrils flash, 
Through the dark night, suddenly, 
Typho, such red jets of flame? — 
Is thy tortured heart still proud? 
Is thy fire-scathed arm still rash? 



. EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA, 241 

Still alert thy stone-crush'd frame? 

Doth thy- fierce soul still deplore 

Thine ancient rout by the Cilician hills, 

And that curst treachery on the Mount of Gore? 

Do thy bloodshot eyes still weep 

The fight which crown'd thine ills, 

Thy last mischance on this Sicilian deep? 

Hast thou sworn, in thy sad lair, 

Where erst the strong sea-currents suck'd thee down, 

Never to cease to writhe, and try to r st. 

Letting the sea-stream wander through thy hair? • 

That thy groans, like thunder prest, 

Begin to roll, and almost drown 

The sweet noteg whose lulling spell 

Gods and the race of mortals love so well, 

When through thy caves thou hearest music swell? 

But an awful pleasure bland 

Spreading o'er the Thunderer's face, 

When the sound climbs near his seat, 

The Olympian council sees ; 

A.S he lets his lax right hand, 

Which the lightnings doth embrace, 

Sink upon his mighty knees. 

And the eagle, at the beck 

Of the appeasing, gracious harmony. 

Droops all his sheeny, brown, deep-feather'd neck. 

Nestling nearer to Jove's feet ; 

While o'er his sovran eye 

The curtains of the blue films slowly meet. 

And the white Olympus-peaks 

Rosily brighten, and the soothed Gods smile 

At one another from their golden chairs. 

And no one round the charmed circle speaks. 

R 



242 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

Only the loved Hebe bears 

The cup about, whose draughts beguile 

Pain and care, with a dark store 

Of fresh-puU'd violets wreathed and nodding o'er; 

And her flush'd feet glow on the marble floor. 

Empedocles. 
He fables, yet speaks truth ! 
The brave impetuous heart yields everywhere 
To the subtle, contriving head; 
Great qualities are trodden down, 
And littleness united 
Is become invincible. 

These rumblings are not Typho's groans, I know! 

These angry smoke -bursts 

Are not the passionate breath 

Of the mountain-crush'd, tortured, intractable Titan 

king- 
But over all the world 
What suffering is there not seen 
Of plainness oppress'd by cunning, 
As the well-counsell'd Zeus oppress'd 
That self-helping son of earth! 
What anguish of greatness, 
Rail'd and hunted from the world, 
Because its simplicity rebukes 
This envious, miserable age ! 

I am weary of it. 

— Lie there, ye ensigns 

Of my unloved preeminence 

In an age like this ! 

Among a people of children, 

Who throng'd me in their cities, 

Who worshipp'd me in their houses, 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA, 243 

And ask'd, not wisdom, 

But drugs to charm with, 

But spells to mutter — 

All the fool's-armoury of magic 1 — Lie "there, 

My golden circlet, 

My purple robe ! 

Callicles {^from below). 
As the sky-brightening south -wind clears the day, 
And makes the mass'd clouds roll. 
The music of the lyre blows away 
The clouds which wrap the soul. 

Oh! that Fate had let me see 

That triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre, 

That famous, final victory 

When jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire; 

When, from far Parnassus' side, 

Young Apollo, all the pride 

Of the Phrygian flutes to tame. 

To the Phrygian highlands came ; 

Where the long green reed-beds sway 

In the rippled waters grey 

Of that solitary lake 

Where Maeander's springs are born; 

Where the ridged pine-wooded roots 

Of Messogis westward break, 

Mounting westward, high and higher. 

There was held the famous strife ; 

There the Phrygian brought his flutes, 

And Apollo brought his lyre ; 

And, when now the westering sun 

Touch'd the hills, the strife was done, 

And the attentive Muses said : 

' Marsyas, thou art vanquished !' 

R 2 



244 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

Then Apollo's minister 

Hang'd upon a branching fir 

IMarsyas, that unhappy Faun, 

And began to whet his knife. 

But the Maenads, who were there, 

Left their friend, and with robes flowing 

In the wind, and loose dark hair 

O'er their polish'd bosoms blowing, 

Each her ribbon'd tambourine 

Flinging on the mountain-sod, 

With a lovely frighten'd mien 

Came about the youthful God. 

But he turn'd his beauteous face 

Haughtily another way, 

From the grassy sun-warm'd place 

Where in proud repose he lay. 

With one arm over his head. 

Watching how the whetting sped. 

But aloof, on the lake-strand, 

Did the young Olympus stand, 

Weeping at his master's end; 

For the Faun had been his friend. 

For he taught him how to sing. 

And he taught him flute-playing. 

Many a morning had they gone 

To the glimmering mountain-lakes. 

And had torn up by the roots 

The tall crested water-reeds 

With long plumes and soft brown seeds, 

And had carved them into flutes, 

Sitting on a tabled stone 

Where the shoreward ripple breaks. 

And he taught him how to please 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA, 445 

The red-snooded Phrygian girls, 

Whom the summer-evening sees 

Flashing in the dance's whirls 

Underneath the starlit trees 

In the mountain-villages. 

Therefore now Olympus stands, 

At his master's piteous cries 

Pressing fast with both his hands 

His white garment to his eyes, 

Not to see Apollo's scorn; — 

Ah, poor Faun, poor Faun ! ah, poor Faun ! 

Empedocles. 
And lie thou there, 
My laurel bough ! 

Scornful Apollo's ensign, lie thou there ! 
Though thou hast been my shade in the world's heat — 
Though I have loved thee, lived in honouring thee — 
Yet lie thou there, 
My laurel bough I 

I am weary of thee. 

I am weary of the solitude 

Where he who bears thee must abide — 

Of the rocks of Parnassus, 

Of the gorge of Delphi, 

Of the moonlit peaks, and the caves. 

Thou guardest them, Apollo ! 

Over the grave of the slain Pytho, 

Though young, intolerably severe I 

Thou keepest aloof the profane, 

But the solitude oppresses thy votary! 

The jars of men reach him not in thy valley — 

But can life reach him ? 

Thou fencest him from the multitude — 



246 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

Who will fence him from himself? 

He hears nothing but the cry of the torrents, 

And the beating of his own heart ; 

The air is thin, the veins swell, 

The temples tighten and throb there — 

Air ! air ! 

Take thy bough, set me free from my solitude; 
I have been enough alone 1 

Where shall thy votary fly then ? back to men ? — 

But they will gladly welcome him once more, 

And help him to unbend his too tense thought, 

And rid him of the presence of himself. 

And keep their friendly chatter at his ear, 

And haunt him, till the absence from himself, 

That other torment, grow unbearable; 

And he will fly to solitude again, 

And he will find its air too keen for him, 

And so change back ; and many thousand times 

Be miserably bandied to and fro 

Like a sea-wave, betwixt the world and thee, 

Thou young, implacable God ! and only death 

Shall cut his oscillations short, and so 

Bring him to poise. There is no other way. 

And yet what days were those, Parmenides! 
When we were young, when we could number friends 
In all the Italian cities like ourselves. 
When with elated hearts we join'd your train. 
Ye Sun-born Virgins! on the road of truth.^* 
Then we could still enjoy, then neither thought 
Nor outward things were closed and dead to us ; 
But we received the shock of mighty thoughts 
On simple minds with a pure natural joy; 



EMPEDOCL-ES ON ETNA. 347 

And if the sacred load oppress'd our brain, 

We had the power to' feel the pressure eased, 

The brow unbound, the thoughts flow free again. 

In the delightful commerce of the world. 

We had not lost our balance then, nor grown 

Thought's slaves and dead to every natural joy. 

The smallest thing could give us pleasure then — 

The sports of the country-people, 

A flute-note from the woods, 

Sunset over the sea ; 

Seed-time and harvest, 

The reapers in the corn, 

The vinedresser in his vineyard, 

The village-girl at her wheel. 

Fulness of life and power of feeling, ye 

Are for the happy, for the souls at ease, 

Who dwell on a firm basis of content ! 

But he, who has outlived his prosperous days — 

But he, whose youth fell on a different world 

From that on which his exiled age is thrown — 

Whose mind was fed on other food, was train'd 

By other rules than .are in vogue to-day — 

Whose habit of thought is fix'd, who will not change, 

But, in a world he loves not, must subsist 

In ceaseless opposition, be the guard 

Of his own breast, fetter'd to what he guards, 

That the world win no mastery over him — 

Who has no friend, no fellow left, not one; 

Who has no minute's breathing-space allow'd 

To nurse his dwindling faculty of joy — 

Joy and the outward world must die to hira. 

As they aye dead to me. 



248 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

A long pause, during which Empkdocles re- 
maitis rnotionless, plunged in thought. The 
night deepens. He moves forward and gazes 
round him, and proceeds : — 

And yoUj ye stars, 

Who slowly begin to marshal, 

As of old, in the fields of heaven, 

Your distant, melancholy lines! 

Have you, too, survived yourselves ? 

Are you, too, what I fear to become? 

You, too, once lived; 

You too moved joyfully, 

Among august companions. 

In an older world, peopled by Gods, 

In a mightier order. 

The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent Sons of Heaven. 

But now, ye kindle 

Your lonely, cold-shining lights, 

Unwilling lingerers 

In the heavenly wilderness. 

For a younger, ignoble world; 

And renew, by necessity, 

Night after night your courses. 

In echoing, unnear'd silence. 

Above a race you know not — 

Uncaring and undelighted. 

Without friend and without home; 

Weary like us, though not 

Weary with our weariness. 

No, no, ye stars! there is no death with you, 
No languor, no decay! languor and death, 
They are with me, not you! ye are alive — 
Ye, and the pure dark ether where ye ride 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 249 

Brilliant above me! And thou, fiery world, 
That sapp'st the vitals of this terrible mount 
Upon whose charr'd and quaking crust I stand— 
Thou, too, brimmest with life ! — the sea of cloud, 
That heaves its white and billowy vapours up 
To moat this isle of ashes from the world, 
Lives; and that other fainter sea, far down. 
O'er whose lit floor a road of moonbeams leads 
To Etna's Liparean sister-fires 
And the long dusky line of Italy — 
That mild and luminous floor of waters lives, 
With held-in joy swelling its heart; I only, 
Whose spring of hope is dried, whose spirit has fail'd, 
I, who have not, like these, in solitude 
Maintain'd courage and force, and in myself 
Nursed an immortal vigour — I alone 
Am dead to life and joy, therefore I read 
In all things my own deadness. 

A long silence. He continues: — - 

Oh, that I could glow like this mountain ! 
Oh, that miy heart bounded with the swell of the sea ! 
Oh, that my soul were full of light as the stars! 
Oh, that it brooded over the world like the air ! 

Biit no, this heart will glow no more ; thou art 
A living man no more, Empedocles ! 
Nothing but a devouring flame of thought — 
But a naked, eternally restless mind! 

After a pause : — 

To the elements it came from 
Everything will return — 
Our bodies to earth. 
Our blood to water. 



2SO EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

Heat to fire, 

Breath to air. 

They were well born, they will be well entomb'd — 

But mind ? . . . 

And we might gladly share the fruitful stir 

Down in our mother earth's miraculous womb; 

Well would it be 

With what roll'd of us in the stormy main; 

We might have joy, blent with the all-bathing air, 

Or with the nimble, radiant life of fire. 

But mind, but thought. 

If these have been the master part of us — 

Where will they find their parent element? 

What will receive them, who will call ihein home ? 

But we shall still be in them, and they in us, 

And we shall be the strangers of the world, 

And they will be our lords, as they are now ; 

And keep us prisoners of our consciousness, 

And never let us clasp and feel the All 

But through their forms, and modes, and stifling veils. 

And we shall be unsatisfied as now; 

And we shall feel the agony of thirst, 

The ineffable longing for the life of life 

Baffled for ever; and still thought and mind 

Will hurry us with them on their homeless march. 

Over the unallied unopening earth, 

Over the unrecognising sea ; while air 

Will blow us fiercely back to sea and earth. 

And fire repel us from its living waves. 

And then we shall unwillingly return 

Back to this meadow of calamity. 

This uncongenial place, this human life; 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA, 251 

And in our individual human state 

Go through the sad probation all again, 

To see if we will poise our life at last. 

To see if we will now at last be true 

To our own only true, deep-buried selves, 

Being one with which we are one with the whole 

world ; 
Or whether we will once more fall away 
Into some bondage of the flesh or mind, 
Some slough of sense, or some fantastic maze 
Forged by the imperious lonely thinking-power. 
And each succeeding age in which we are born 
Will have more peril for us than the last ; 
Will goad our senses with a sharper spur, 
Will fret our minds to an intenser play, 
Will make ourselves harder to be discern'd. 
And we shall struggle awhile, gasp and rebel-^- 
And we shall fly for refuge to past times. 
Their soul of unworn youth, their breath of greatness ; 
And the reality will pluck us back. 
Knead us in its hot hand, and change our nature. 
And we shall feel our powers of effort flag, 
And rally them for one last fight — and fail; 
And we shall sink in the impossible strife, 
And be astray for ever. 

Slave of sense 
I have in no wise been; but slave of thought?— 
And who can say : I have been always free, 
Lived ever in the light of my own soul.'' — 
I cannot; I have lived in wrath and gloom. 
Fierce, disputatious, ever at war with man. 
Far from iny own soul, far from warmth ^nd light. 
But I have not grown easy in these bonds — 
But T have not denied what bonds these were. 



253 EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 

Yea, I take myself to witness, 
That I have loved no darkness, 
Sophisticated no truth, 
Nursed no delusion, 
AUow'd no fear! 

And therefore, O ye elements! I know — 
Ye know it too — it hath been granted me 
Not to die wholly, not to be all enslaved. 
I feel it in this hour. The numbing cloud 
Mounts off my soul; I feel it, I breathe free. 

Is it but for a moment? 

— Ah, boil up, ye vapours ! 

Leap and roar, thou sea of fire! 

My soul glows to meet you. 

Ere it flag, ere the mists 

Of despondency and gloom 

Rush over it again. 

Receive me, save me I He plunges into the crater. 

Callicles [from below). 
Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts. 
Thick breaks the red flame; 
All Etna heaves fiercely 
Her forest-clothed frame. 

Not here, O Apollo 1 
Are haunts meet for thee. 
But, where Helicon breaks down 
In cliff to the sea. 

Where the moon-silver'd inlets 
Send far their light voice 
Up the still vale of Thisbe — 
O speed, and rejoice! 



EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA. 353 

On the sward at the cliff-top 
Lie strewn the white flocks ; 
On the cliff-side the pigeons 
Roost deep in the rocks. 

In the moonlight the shepherds, 
Soft lull'd by the rills, 
Lie wrapt in their blankets 
Asleep on the hills. 

— What forms are these coming 
So white through the gloom? 
What garments out-glistening 
The gold-flower'd broom? 

What sweet-breathing presence 
Out-perfumes the thyme? 
What voices enrapture 
The night's balmy prime? — 

'Tis Apollo comes leading 
His choir, the Nine. 
— The leader is fairest, 
But all are divine. 

They are lost in the hollows ! 
They stream up again! 
What seeks on this mountain 
The glorified train ? — 

They bathe on this mountain, 
In the spring by their road; 
Then on to Olympus, 
Their endless abode. 

— Whose praise do they mention? 
Of what is it told ? — 
What will be for ever; 
What was from of old. 



354 BACCHANALIA; OR, THE NEW AGE. 

First hymn they the Father 
Of all things ; — and then, 
The rest of immortals, 
The action of men. 

The day in his hotness, 
The strife with the palm; 
The night in her silence, 
The stars in their calm. 



BACCHANALIA; OR, THE NEW AGE. 



The evening comes, the fields are still. 
The tinkle of the thirsty rill, 
Unheard all day, ascends again; 
Deserted is the half-mown plain, 
Silent the swaths! the ringing wain, 
The mower's cry, the dog's alarms, 
All housed within the sleeping farms! 
The business of the day is done, 
The last-left haymaker is gone. 
And from the thyme upon the height, 
And from the elder-blossom white 
And pale dog-roses in the hedge. 
And from the mint-plant in the sedge, 
In puffs of balm the night-air blows 
The perfume which the day forgoes. 
And on the pure horizon far. 
See, pulsing with the first-born star, 
The liquid sky above the hill ! 
The evening comes, the fields arc still. 



BACCHANALIA ; OR, THE NEW AGE. 255 

Loitering and leaping, 
With saunter, with bounds — 
Flickering and circling 
In files and in rounds — 
Gaily their pine-staflf green 
Tossing in air. 

Loose o'er their shoulders white 
Showering their hair — 
See 1 the wild Maenads 
Break from the wood, 
Youth and lacchus 
Maddening their blood. 
See! through the quiet land 
Rioting they pass — 
Fling the fresh heaps about, 
Trample the grass. 
Tear from the rifled hedge 
Garlands, their prize; 
Fill with their sports the field, 
Fill with their cries. 

Shepherd, what ails thee, then? 

Shepherd, why mute ? 

Forth with thy joyous song ! 

Forth with thy flute ! 

Tempts not the revel blithe? 

Lure not their cries.? 

Glow not their shoulders smooth? 

Melt not their eyes .? 

Is not, on cheeks like those. 

Lovely the flush.? 

— Ah, so the quiet was I 

So was the hush I 



256 BACCHANALIA \ OR, THE NEW AGE. 



IL 

The epoch ends, the world is still. 

The age has talk'd and work'd its fill — 

The famous orators have shone, 

The famous poets sung and gone, 

The famous men of war have fought, 

The famous speculators thought. 

The famous players, sculptors, wrought, 

The famous painters fiU'd their wall, 

The famous critics judged it all. 

The combatants are parted now — 

Uphung the spear, unbent the bow, 

The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low. 

And in the after-silence sweet. 

Now strifes are hush'd, our ears doth meet, 

Ascending pure, the bell-like fame 

Of this or that down-trodden name, 

Delicate spirits, push'd away 

In the hot press of the noon-day. 

And o'er the plain, where the dead age 

Did its now silent warfare wage — 

O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom, 

Where many a splendour finds its tomb, 

Many spent fames and fallen nights — 

The one or two immortal lights 

Rise slowly up into the sky 

To shine there everlastingly. 

Like stars over the bounding hill. 

The epoch ends, the world is still. 

Thundering and bursting 
In torrents, in waves — 



BACCHANALIA; OR, THE NEW AGE. 357 

Carolling and shouting 

Over tombs, amid graves — 

See ! on the cumber'd plain 

Clearing a stage, 

Scattering the past about, 

Comes the new age. 

Bards make new poems, 

Thinkers new 'schools, 

Statesmen new systems, 

Critics new rules. 

All things begin again; 

Life is their prize ; 

Earth with their deeds they fill, 

Fill with their cries. 

Poet, what ails thee, then? 
Say, why so mute? 
Forth with thy praising voice i 
Forth with thy flute! 
Loiterer ! why sittest thou 
Sunk in thy dream? 
Tempts not the bright new age? 
Shines not its stream? 
Look, ah, what genius, 
Art, science, witl 
Soldiers like Caesar, 
Statesmen like Pitt! 
Sculptors like Phidias, 
Raphaels in shoals, 
Poets like Shakspeare — 
Beautiful souls ! 
See, on their glowing cheeks 
Heavenly the flush ! 
— Ah, so the silence wast 
So ivas the hiish ! 
5 



258 EPILOGUE TO LESSINCS LAO COON. 

The world but feels the present's spell, 
The poet feels the past as well ; 
Whatever men have done, might do, 
Whatever thought, might think it too. 



EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON. 

One morn as through Hyde Park we walk'd, 

My friend and I, by chance we talk'd 

Of Lessing's famed Laocoon ; 

And after we awhile had gone 

In Lessing's track, and tried to see 

What painting is, what poetry — 

Diverging to another thought, 

' Ah,' cries my friend, ' but who hath taught 

Why music and the other arts 

Oftener perform aright their parts 

Than poetry? why she, than they, 

Fewer fine successes can display ? 

* For 'tis so, surely ! Even in Greece, 
Where best the poet framed his piece 
Even in that Phcebus-guarded ground 
Pausanias on his travels found 
Good poems, if he look'd, more rare 
(Though many) than good statues were — 
For these, in truth, were everywhere. 
Of bards full many a stroke divine 
In Dante's, Petrarch's, Tasso's line, 
The land of Ariosto show'd ; 
And yet, e'en there, the canvas glow'd 
With triumphs, a yet ampler brood. 
Of Raphael and his brotherhood. 



EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON. 2ii) 

And nobly perfect, in our day 
Of haste, half-work, and disarray, 
Profound yet touching, sweet yet strong, 
Hath risen Goethe's, Wordsworth's song; 
Yet even I (and none will bow 
Deeper to these) must needs allow, 
They yield us not, to soothe our pains, 
Such multitude of heavenly strains 
As from the kings of sound are blown, 
Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn.' 

While thus my friend discoursed, we pass 
Out of the path, and take the grass. 
The grass had still the green of May, 
And still the unblacken'd elms were gay; 
The kine were resting in the shade, 
The flies a summer-murmur made. 
Bright was the morn and south the air; 
The soft-couch'd cattle were as fair 
As those which pastured by the sea, 
That old-world morn, in Sicily, 
When on the beach the Cyclops lay, 
And Galatea from the bay 
Mock'd her poor lovelorn giant's lay. 
* Behold,' I said, 'the painter's sphere! 
The limits of his art appear. 
The passing group, the summer-morn, 
The grass, the elms, that blossom'd thorn — • 
Those cattle couch'd, or, as they rise. 
Their shining flanks, their liquid eyes — 
These, or much greater things, but caught 
Like these, and in one aspect brought! 
In outward semblance he must give 
A moment's life of things that live ; 
s 2 



26o EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LA^COOM, 

Then let him choose his moment well, 
With power divine its story tell.' 

Still we walk'd on, in thoughtful mood, 

And now upon the bridge we stood. 

Full of sweet breathings was the air, 

Of sudden stirs and pauses fair. 

Down o'er the stately bridge the breeze 

Came rustling from the garden-trees 

And on the sparkling waters play'd; 

Light-plashing waves an answer made, 

And mimic boats their haven near'd, 

Beyond, the Abbey-towers appear'd — 

By mist and chimneys unconfined, 

Free to the sweep of light and wind; 

While through their earth-moor'd nave below 

Another breath of wind doth blow, 

Sound as of wandering breeze — but sound 

In laws by human artists bound. 

'The world of music!' I exclaim'd — 

' This breeze that rustles by, that famed 

Abbey recall it ! what a sphere. 

Large and profound, hath genius here ! 

The inspired musician what a range. 

What power of passion, wealth of change 1 

Some source of feeling he must choose 

And its lock'd fount of beauty use, 

And through the stream of music tell 

Its else unutterable spell; 

To choose it rightly is his part, 

And press into its inmost heart, 

' Miserere, Domine ! 

Tlic words are ulter'd, and they flee. 



EPILOGUE TO LESSTNG'S LAOCOON. 261 

Deep is their penitential moan, 

Mighty their pathos, but 'tis gone. 

They have declared the spirit's sore 

Sore load, and words can do no more. 

Beethoven takes them then — those two 

Poor, bounded words — and makes them new; 

Infinite makes them, makes them young; 

Transplants them to another tongue, 

Where they can now, without constraint, 

Pour all the soul of their complaint, 

And roll adown a channel large 

The wealth divine they have in charge. 

Page after page of music turn, 

And still they live and still they burn, 

Eternal, passion-fraught, and free — 

Miserere, Domine /' 

Onward we moved, and reach'd the ride 

Where gaily flows the human tide. 

Afar, in rest the cattle lay; 

We heard, afar, faint music play; 

But agitated, brisk, and near, 

Men, with their stream of life, were here. 

Some hang upon the rails, and some 

On foot behind them go and come. 

This through the ride upon his steed 

Goes slowly by, and this at speed. 

The young, the happy, and the fair. 

The old, the sad, the worn, were there; 

Some vacant, and some musing went, 

And some in talk and merriment. 

Nods, smiles, and greetings, and farewells I 

And now and then, perhaps, there swells 

A sigh, a tear — but in the throng 

All changes fast, and hies along. 



j62 epilogue to lessing's laocoon. 

Hies, ah, from whence, what native ground? 
And to what goal, what ending, bound? 
*' Behold at last the poet's sphere 1 
But who/ I said, 'suffices here? 

' For, ah ! so much he has to do ; 

Be painter and musician tool 

The aspect of the moment show, 

The feeling of the moment know I 

The aspect not, I grant, express 

Clear as the painter's art can dress; 

The feeling not, I grant, explore 

So deep as the musician's lore — 

But clear as words can make revealing, 

And deep as words can follow feeHng. 

But, ah ! then comes his sorest spell 

Of toil — he must life's movement tell ! 

The thread which binds it all in one, 

And not its separate parts alone. 

The movement he must tell of life, 

Its pain and pleasure, rest and strife; 

His eye must travel down, at full, 

The long, unpausing spectacle; 

With faithful unrelaxing force 

Attend it from its primal source, 

From change to change and year to year 

Attend it of its mid career. 

Attend it to the last repose 

And solemn silence of its close. 

' The cattle rising from the grass 

His thought must follow where they pass; 

The penitent with anguish bow'd 

His thought must follow through the crowd. 

Yes 1 all this eddying, motley throng 



EPILOGUE TO LESSING*S LAOCOON. 263 

That sparkles in the sun along, 
Girl, statesman, merchant, soldier bold. 
Master and servant, young and old, 
Grave, gay, child, parent, husband, wife, 
He follows home, and lives their life. 

'And many, many are the souls 
Life's movement fascinates, controls. 
It draws them on, they cannot save 
Their feet from its alluring wave; 
They cannot leave it, they must go 
With its unconquerable flow. 
But ah! how few, of all that try 
This mighty march, do aught but die I 
For ill-endow'd for such a way. 
Ill-stored in strength, in wits, are they. 
They faint, they stagger to and fro. 
And wandering from the stream they go; 
In pain, in terror, in distress. 
They see, all round, a wilderness. 
Sometimes a momentary gleam 
They catch of the mysterious stream ; 
Sometimes, a second's space, their ear 
The murmur of its waves doth hear; 
That transient glimpse in song they say, 
But not as painter can pourtray — • 
That transient sound in song they tell, 
But not, as the musician, well. 
And when at last their snatches cease. 
And they are silent and at peace. 
The stream of life's majestic whole 
Hath ne'er been mirror'd on their soul. 

' Only a few the life-stream's shore 
With safe unwandering feet explore; 



264 EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LA0C0dl7. 

Untired its movement bright attend, 

Follow its windings to the end. 

Then from its brimming waves their eye 

Drinks up delighted ecstasy, 

And its deep-toned, melodious voice 

For ever makes their ear rejoice. 

They speak ! the happiness divine 

They feel, runs o'er in every line; 

Its spell is round them like a shower — 

It gives them pathos, gives them power. 

No painter yet hath such a way, 

Nor no musician made, as they. 

And gather'd on immortal knolls 

Such lovely flowers for cheering souls. 

Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reach 

The charm which Homer, Shakspeare, teach. 

To these, to these, their thankful race 

Gives, then, the first, the fairest place; 

And brightest is their glory's sheen, 

For greatest hath their labour been.' 



PERSISTENCY OF POETRY. 

Though the Muse be gone away. 
Though she move not earth to-day. 
Souls, erewhile who caught her word, 
Ah! still harp on what they heai'd. 



A CAUTION TO POETS. 

What poets feel not, when they make, 

A pleasure in creating, 
The world, in ils turn, will not take 

Pleasui^e in contemplating, 



THE YOUTH OF NATURE. 265 

THE YOUTH OF NATURE. 

Raised are the dripping oars, 

Silent the boat! the lake, 

Lovely and soft as a dream, 

Swims in the sheen of the moon. 

The mountains stand at its head 

Clear in the pure June-night, 

But the valleys are flooded with haze. 

Rydal and Fairfield are there; 

In the shadow Wordsworth lies dead. 

So it is, so it will be for aye. 

Nature is fresh as of old, 

Is lovely; a mortal is dead. 

The spots which recall him survive, 
For he lent a new life to these hills. 
The Pillar still broods o'er the fields 
Which border Ennerdale Lake, 
And Egremont sleeps by the sea. 
The gleam of The Evening Star 
Twinkles on Grasmere no more, 
But ruin'd and solemn and grey 
The sheepfold of Michael survives; 
And, far to the south, the heath 
Still blows in the Quantock coombs, 
By the favourite waters of Ruth. 
These survive ! — yet not without pain, 
Pain and dejection to-night, 
Can I feel that their poet is gone. 

He grew old in an age he condemn'd. 
He look'd on the rushing decay 
Of the times which had shelter'd • his youth — 
Felt the dissolving throes 



266 THE YOUTH OF NATURE, 

Of a social order he loved — 
Outlived his brethren, his peers; 
And, like the Theban seer, 
Died in his enemies' day. 

Cold bubbled the spring of Tilphusa, 
Copais lay bright in the moon, 
Helicon glass'd in the lake 
Its firs, and afar rose the peaks 
Of Parnassus, snowily clear; 
Thebes was behind him in flames, 
And the clang of arms in his ear, 
When his awe-struck captors led 
The Theban seer to the spring. 
Tiresias drank and died. 
Nor did reviving Thebes 
See such a prophet again. 

Well may we mourn, when the head 

Of a sacred poet lies low 

In an age which can rear them no more ! 

The complaining millions of men 

Darken in labour and pain ; 

But he was a priest to us all 

Of the wonder and bloom of the world, 

Which we saw with his eyes, and were glad. 

He is dead, and the fruit-bearing day 

Of his race is past on the earth; 

And darkness returns to our eyes. 

For, oh ! is it you, is it you. 
Moonlight, and shadow, and lake, 
And mountains, that fill us with joy, 
Or the poet who sings you so well? 
Is it you, O beauty, O grace, 



THE YOUTH OF NATURE. 267 

O charm, O romance, that we feel, 

Or the voice which reveals what you are? 

Are ye, Hke dayhght and sun, 

Shared and rejoiced in by all? ' 

Or are ye immersed in the mass 

Of matter, and hard to extract, 

Or sunk at the core of the world 

Too deep for the most to discern? 

Like stars in the deep of the sky. 

Which arise on the glass of the sage, 

But are lost when their watcher is gone. 

'They are here' — I heard, as men heard 

In Mysian Ida the voice 

Of the Mighty Mother, or Crete, 

The murmur of Nature reply — 

* Loveliness, magic, grace, 

They are here! they are set in the world, 

They abide; and the finest of souls 

Hath not been thrill'd by them all. 

Nor the dullest been dead to them quite. 

The poet who sings them may die, 

But they are immortal and live, 

For they are the life of the world. 

Will ye not learn it, and know, 

When ye mourn that a poet is dead, 

That the singer was less than his themes, 

Life, and emotion, and I? 

'More than the singer are these. 
Weak is the tremor of pain * 
That thrills in his mournfullest chord 
To that which once ran through his soul. 
Cold the elation of joy 



268 THE YOUTH OF NATURE. 

In his gladdest, airiest song, 

To that which of old in his youth 

Fill'd him and made him divine. 

Hardly his voice at its best 

Gives us a sense of the awe, 

The vastness, the grandeur, the gloom 

Of the unlit gulph of himself. 

' Ye know not yourselves ; and your bards — 

The clearest, the best, who have read 

Most in themselves — have beheld 

Less than they left unreveal'd. 

Ye express not yourselves; — can ye make 

With marble, with colour, with word, 

What charm'd you in others re-live? 

Can thy pencil, O artist! restore 

The figure, the bloom of thy love, 

As she was in her morning of spring? 

Canst thou paint the ineffable smile 

Of her eyes as they rested on thine? 

Can the image of life have the glow, 

The motion of Hfe itself? 

' Yourselves and your fellows ye know not ; and me, 

The mateless, the one, will ye know? 

Will ye scan me, and read me, and tell 

Of the thoughts that ferment in my breast, 

My longing, my sadness, my joy? 

Will ye claim for your great ones the gift 

To have render'd the gleam of my skies. 

To have echoed the moan of my seas, 

Utter'd the voice bf my hills? 

When your great ones depart, will ye say: 

All things have suffer d a loss, 

Nature is hid in their grave? 



THE YOUTH OF MAN. 269 

'Race after race, man after man, 
Have thought that my secret was theirs, 
Have dream'd that I lived but for them. 
That they were my glory and joy. 
— They are dust, they are changed, they are gone ! 
I remain/ 



THE YOUTH OF .MAN. 

We, O Nature, depart, 

Thou survivest us ! this, 

This, I know, is the law. 

Yes ! but, more than this, 

Thou who seest us die 

Seest us change while we live; 

Seest our dreams, one by one, 

Seest our errors depart; 

Watchest us. Nature ! throughout 

Mild and inscrutably calm. 

Well for us that we change I 
Well for us that the power 
Which in our morning-prime 
Saw the mistakes of our youth. 
Sweet, and forgiving, and good, 
Sees the contrition of age 1 

Behold, O Nature, this pair! 
See them to-night where they stand, 
Not with the halo of youth 
Crowning their brows with its light, 
Not with the sunshine of hope, 
Not with the rapture of spring, 



270 THE YOUTH OF MAN. 

Which they had of old, when they stood 
Years ago at my side 
In this self-same garden, and said: 
'We are young, and the world is ours; 
Man, man is the king of the world 1 
Fools that these mystics are 
Who prate of Nature ! but she 
Hath neither beauty, nor warmth, 
Nor life, nor emotion, nor power. 
But man has^a thousand gifts. 
And the generous dreamer invests 
The senseless world with them all. 
Nature is nothing; her charm 
Lives in our eyes which can paint, 
Lives in our hearts which can feel.* 

Thou, O Nature, wast mute, 

Mute as of old ! days flew, 

Days and years; and Time 

With the ceaseless stroke of his wings 

Brush'd off the bloom from their soul. 

Clouded and dim grew their eye, 

Languid their heart — for youth 

Quicken'd its pulses no more. 

Slowly, within the walls 

Of an ever-narrowing world. 

They droop'd, they grew bhnd, they grew old. 

Thee and their youth in thee, 

Nature ! they saw no more. 

Murmur of living, 

Stir of existence, 

Soul of the world I 

Make, oh, make yourselves felt 



THE YOUTH OF MAN. 271 

To the dying spirit of youth ! 

Come, like the breath of the spring! 

Leave not a human soul 

To grow old in darkness and painl 

Only the living can feel you, 

But leave us not while we livel 

Here they stand to-night — 

Here, where this grey balustrade 

Crowns the still valley; behind 

In the castled house with its woods 

Which shelter'd their childhood — the sun 

On its ivied windows; a scent 

From the grey-wall'd gardens, a- breath 

Of the fragrant stock' and the pink, 

Perfumes the evening air. 

Their children play on the lawns. 

They stand and listen; they hear 

The children's shouts, and at times, 

Faintly, the bark of a dog 

From a distant farm in the hills. 

Nothing besides ! in front 

The wide, wide valley outspreads 

To the dim horizon, reposed 

In the twilight, and bathed in dew, 

Corn-field and hamlet and copse 

Darkening fast; but a light, 

Far off, a glory of day. 

Still plays on the city-spires; 

And there in the dusk by the walls. 

With the grey mist marking its course 

Through the silent, flowery land, 

On, to the plains, to the sea, 

Floats the imperial stream. 



27a THE YOUTH OF MA 17. 

Well I know what they feel! 
They gaze, and the evening wind 
Plays on their faces ; they gaze — 
Airs from the Eden of youth 
Awake and stir in their soul; 
The past returns — they feel 
What they are, alas ! what they were. 
They, not Nature, are changed. 
Well I know what they feel! 

Hush, for tears 

Begin to steal to their eyes ! 

Hush, for fruit 

Grows from such sorrow as theirs! 

And they remember, 

With piercing, untold anguish, 

The proud boasting of their youth. 

And they feel how Nature was fair. 

And the mists of delusion, 

And the scales of habit, 

Fall away from their eyes; 

And they see, for a moment, 

Stretching out, like the desert 

In its weary, unprofitable length, 

Their faded, ignoble li^-es. 

While the locks are yet brown on thy head, 

While the soul still looks through thine eyes, 

While the heart still pours 

The mantling blood to thy cheek. 

Sink, O youth, in thy soul ! 

Yearn to the greatness of Nature ; 

Rally the good in the depths of thyself 1 



PROGRESS. 273 

PALLADIUM. 

Set where the upper streams of Simois flow 
Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood; 
And Hector was in Ilium, far below, 
And fought, and saw it not — but there it stood ! 

It stood, and sun and moonshine rain'd their light 
On the pure columns of its glen-built hall. 
Backward and forward roll'd the waves of fight 
Round Troy — but while this stood, Troy could not fall. 

So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul. 
Mountains surround it, and sweet virgin air; 
Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters roll; 
We visit it by moments, ah, too rare! 

Men will renew the battle in the plain 
To-morrow; — red with blood will Xanthus be; 
Hector and Ajax will be there again, 
Helen will come upon the wall to see. 

Then we shall rust in shade, or shine in strife. 
And fluctuate 'twixt bUnd hopes and blind despairs, 
And fancy that we put forth all our life, 
And never know how with the soul it fares. 

Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high, 
Upon our life a ruHng effluence send; 
And when it fails, fight as we will, we die, 
And while it lasts, we cannot wholly end. 



PROGRESS. 

The Master stood upon the mount, and taught. 
He saw a fire in his disciples' eyes; 
'The old law,' they said, 'is wholly come to nought, 
Behold the new world rise 1 ' 

T 



274 PROGRESS. 

' Was it/ the Lord then said, ' with scorn ye saw 
The old law observed by Scribes and Pharisees? 
I say unto you, see ye keep that law 
More faithfully than these! 

' Too hasty heads for ordering worlds, alas ! 
Think not that I to annul the law have will'd; 
No jot, no titde from ihe law shall pass, 
Till all have been fulfill'd.' 

So Christ said eighteen hundred years ago. 
And what then shall be said to those to-day, 
Who cry aloud to lay the old world low 
To clear the new world's way? 

' Religious fervours ! ardour misapplied ! 
Hence, hence,' they cry, ' ye do but keep man blind ! 
But keep him self-immersed, preoccupied, 
And lame the active mind I 

Ah ! from the old world let some one answer give : 
' Scorn ye this world, their tears, their inward cares ? 
I say unto you, see that your souls live 
A deeper life than theirs! 

' Say ye : " The spirit of man has found new roads. 
And we must leave the old faiths, and walk therein?"— 
Leave then the Cross as ye have left carved gods. 
But guard the fire within ! 

' Bright, else, and fast the stream of life may roll, 
And no man may the other's hurt behold ; 
Yet each will have one anguish — his own soul 
Which perishes of cold.' 

Here let that voice make end ; then, let a strain, 
From a far lonelier distance, like the wind 
Be heard, floating through heaven, and fill again 
These men's profoundest mind: 



REVOLUTIONS. 275 

' Children of men ! the unseen Power, whose eye 
For ever doth accompany mankind, 
Hath look'd on no religion scornfully 
That men did ever find. 

' Which has not taught weak wills how much they can ? 
Which has not fall'n on the dry heart like rain? 
Which has not cried to sunk, self- weary man : 
Thou must be born again ! 

' Children of men ! not that your age excel 
In pride of life the ages of your sires. 
But that j/5 think clear, feel deep, bear fruit well, 
The Friend of man desires.' 



REVOLUTIONS. 

Before man parted for this earthly strand, 
While yet upon the verge of heaven he stood, 
God put a heap of letters in his hand. 
And bade him make with them what word he could. 

And man has turn'd them many times ; made Greece, 
Rome, England, France ; — yes, nor in vain essay'd 
Way after way, changes that never cease! 
The letters have combined, something was made. 

But ah! an inextinguishable sense 
Haunts him that he has not made what he should ; 
That he has still, though old, to recommence. 
Since he has not yet found the word God would. 

And empire after empire, at their height 
Of sway, have felt this boding sense come on; 
Have felt their huge frames not constructed right, 
And droop' d, and slowly died upon their throne. 

T 2 



276 SELF-DEPENDENCE. 

One day, thou say'st, there will at last appear 
The word, the order, which God meant should be. 
— Ah! we shall know that well when it comes near; 
The band will quit man's heart, he will breathe free. 



SELF-DEPENDENCE. 

Weary of myself, and sick of asking 
What I am, and what I ought to be, 
At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me 
Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea. 

And a look of passionate desire 

O'er the sea and to the stars I send: 

'Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me. 

Calm me, ah, compose me to the end! 

Ah, once more,' I cried, 'ye stars, ye waters, 
On my heart your mighty charm renew; 
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you. 
Feel my soul becoming vast Hke you I' 

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, 
Over the lit sea's unquiet way, 
In the rustling night-air came the answer: 
'Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they. 

' Unaffrighted by the silence round them, 
Undistracted by the sights they see. 
These demand not that the things without them 
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 

'And with joy the stars perform their shining, 
And the sea its long moonsilver'd roll; 
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting 
All the fever of some differing soul. 



MORALITY. 277 

'Bounded by themselves, and unregardful 
In what state God's other works may be, 
In their own tasks all their powers pouring, 
These attain the mighty life you see.' 

O air-born voice ! long since, severely clear, 
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear : 
'Resolve to be thyself; and know, that he 
Who finds himself, loses his misery 1' 



MORALITY. -\^ 

We cannot kindle when we will 

The fire which in the heart resides ; 

The spirit bloweth and is still, 

In mystery our soul abides. 

But tasks in hours of insight will'd 
Can be through hours of gloom fulfiU'd. 

With aching hands and bleeding feet 
We dig and heap, lay stone on stone ; 
We bear the burden and the heat 
Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. 
Not till the hours of light return, 
All we have built do we discern. 

Then, when the clouds are off the soul, 
When thou dost bask in Nature's eye, 
Ask, how she view'd thy self-control. 
Thy struggling, task'd morality — 

Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air, 
Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. 

And she, whose censure thou dost dread. 
Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, 



278 A SUMMER NIGHT. 

See, on her face a glow is spread, 
A strong emotion on her check ! 

'Ah, child!' she cries, 'that strife divine. 
Whence was it, for it is not mine ? 

'There is no effort on my brow — 
I do not strive, I do not weep ; 
I rush with the swift spheres and glow 
In joy, and when I will, I sleep. 
Yet that severe, that earnest air, 
I saw, I felt it once — but where? 

*I knew not yet the gauge of time, 

Nor wore the manacles of space ; 

I felt it in some other clime, 

I saw it in some other place. 

'Twas when the heavenly house I trod, 
And lay upon the breast of God.' 



A SUMMER NIGHT. 

In the. deserted, moon-blanch'd street, 

How lonely rings the echo of my feet ! 

Those windows, which I gaze at, frown, 

Silent and white, unopening down. 

Repellent as the world; — but see, 

A break between the housetops shows 

The moon ! and, lost behind her, fading dim 

Into the dewy dark obscurity 

Down at the far horizon's rim. 

Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose! 

And to my mind the thought 

Is on a sudden brought 

Of a past night, and a far different scene. 



A SUMMER ALIGHT. 279 

Headlands stood out into the moon- lit deep 

As clearly as at noon; 

The spring-tide's brimming flow 

Heaved dazzlinglj' between; 

Houses, with long white sweep, 

Girdled the glistening bay ; 

Behind, through the soft air, 

The blue haze-cradled mountains spread away. 

That night was far more fair — 

But the same resdess pacings to and fro, 

And the same vainly throbbing heart was there, 

And the same bright, calm moon. 

And the calm moonlight seems to say: 

Hast thou then still the old unquiet breast. 

Which neither deadens into rest., 

Nor ever feels the fiery gloiv 

That whirls the spirit from itself away. 

But fluctuates to and fro, 

Never by passion quite possess' d 

And never quite benuinUd by the world's SiVay ? — 

And I, I know not if to pray 

Still to be what I am, or yield, and be 

Like all the other men I see. ' 

For most men in a brazen prison live, 

Where, in the sun's hot eye, 

With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidly 

Their lives to some unmeaning taskwork give, 

Dreaming of nought beyond their prison-wall. 

And as, year after year, 

Fresh products of their barren labour fall 

From their tired hands, and rest 

Never yet comes more near, 

Gloom settles slowly down over their breast. 



28o A SUMMER NIGHT. 

And while they try to stem 

The waves of mournful thought by which they are prest 

Death in their prison reaches them, 

Unfreed, having seen nothing, still unblest. 

And the rest, a few, 

Escape their prison and depart 

On the wide ocean of life anew. 

There the freed prisoner, where'er his heart 

Listeth, will sail; 

Nor doth he know how there prevail, 

Despotic on that sea, 

Trade-winds which cross it from eternity. 

Awhile he holds some false way, undebarr'd 

By thwarting signs, and braves 

The freshening wind and blackening waves. 

And then the tempest strikes him ; and between 

The lightning-bursts is seen 

Only a driving wreck. 

And the pale master on his spar-strewn deck 

With anguish'd face and flying hair 

Grasping the rudder hard, 

Still bent to make some port he knows not where. 

Still standing for some false, impossible shore. 

And sterner comes the roar 

Of sea and wind, and through the deepening gloom 

Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman loom. 

And he too disappears, and comes no more. 

Is there no life, but these alone ? 
Madman or slave, must man be one ? 

Plainness and clearness without shadow of stain! 

Clearness divine 1 

Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no sign 



THE BtJRIED LIFE. 281 

Of languor, though so calm, and though so great 

Are yet untroubled and unpassionate ; 

Who, though so noble, share in the world's toil, 

And, though so task'd, keep free from dust and soil ! 

I will not say that your mild deeps retain 

A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain 

Who have long'd deeply once, and long'd in vain — • 

But I will rather say that you remain 

A world above man's head, to let him see 

]iow boundless might his soul's horizons be, 

How vast, yet of what clear transparency ! 

How it were good to live there, and breathe free; 

How fair a lot to fill 

Is left to each man still! 



THE BURIED LIFE. 

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, 

Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet ! 

I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. 

Yes, yes, we know that we can jest, 

We know, we know that we can smile! 

But there 's a something in this breast, 

To which thy light words bring no rest, 

And thy gay smiles no anodyne ; 

Give me thy hand, and hush awhile. 

And turn those limpid eyes on mine, 

And let me read there, love ! thy inmost soul. 

Alas ! is even love too weak 
To unlock the heart, and let it speak? 
Are even lovers powerless to reveal 
To one another what indeed they feel? 



282 THE BURIED LIFE. 

I knew the mass of men conceal'd 

Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd 

They would by other men be met 

With blank indifference, or with blame reproved ; 

I knew they lived and moved 

Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest 

Of men, and alien to themselves — and yet 

The same heart beats in every human breast ! 

But we, my love !— doth a like spell benumb 
Our hearts, our voices ? — must we too be dumb ? 

Ah ! well for us, if even we, 
Even for a moment, can get free 
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd; 
For that which seals them hath been deep- 
ordain'd ! 

Fate, which foresaw 

How frivolous a baby man would be — 
By what distractions he would be possess'd, 
How he would pour himself in every strife, 
And well-nigh change his own identity — 
That it might keep from his capricious play 
His genuine self, and force him to obey 
Even in his own despite his being's law, 
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast 
The unregarded river of our life 
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way; 
And that we should not see 
The buried stream, and seem to be 
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty, 
Though driving on with it eternally. 

But often, in the world's most crowded streets. 
But often, in the din of strife, 



THE BURIED LIFE. 283 

There rises an unspeakable desire 

After the knowledge of our buried life; 

A thirst to spend our fire and restless force 

In tracking out our true, original course ; 

A longing to inquire 

Into the mystery of this heart which beats 

So wild, so deep in us — to know 

Whence our lives come and where they go. 

And many a man in his own breast then delves, 

But deep enough, alas ! none ever mines. 

And we have been on many thousand lines. 

And we have shown, on each, spirit and power ; 

But hardly have we, for one litlle hour, 

Been on our own line, have we been ourselves — '- 

Hardly had skill to utter one of all 

The nameless feelings that course through our 

breast. 
But they course on for ever unexpress'd. 
And long we try in vain to speak and act 
Our hidden self, and what we say and do 
Is eloquent, is well — but 'tis not true! 
And then we will no more be rack'd 
With inward striving, a"nd demand 
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour 
Their stupefying power; 
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call ! 
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn, 
From the soul's subterranean depth upborne 
As from an infinitely distant land, 
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey 
A melancholy into all our day. 

Only — but this is rare — 

When a beloved hand is laid in ours. 



284 LINES WRITTEN IN 

When, jaded with the rush and glare 

Of the interminable hours, 

Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, 

When our world-deafen'd ear 

Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd — 

A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, 

And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. 

The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, 

And what we mean, we say, and what we would, 

we know. 
A man becomes aware of his life's flow, 
And hears its winding murmur, and he sees 
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. 

And there arrives a lull in the hot race 
Wherein he doth for ever chase 
The flying and elusive shadow, rest. 
An air of coolness plays upon his face, 
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. 
And then he thinks he knows 
The hifls where his life rose, 
And the sea where it goes. 



LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON 

GARDENS. 
In this lone, open glade I lie, 
Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand; 
And at its end, to stay the eye, 
Those black- crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand I 

Birds here make song, each bird has his, 
Across the girdling city's hum. 
How green under the boughs it is! 
How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come! 



KENSINGTON GARDENS. 285 

Sometimes a child will cross the glade 
To take his nurse his broken toy; 
Sometimes a thrush flit overhead 
Deep in her unknown day's employ. 

Here at my feet what wonders pass, 
What endless, active life is here ! 
What blowing daisies, fragrant grass 1 
An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear. 

Scarce fresher is the mountain- sod 
Where the tired angler hes, stretch'd out, 
And, eased of basket and of rod. 
Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout. 

In the huge world, which roars hard by. 

Be others happy if they can 1 

But in my helpless cradle I 

Was breathed on by the rural Pan. 

I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd, 
Think often, as I hear them rave. 
That peace has left the upper world 
And now keeps only in the grave. 

Yet here is peace for ever new ! 
When I who watch them am away, 
Still all things in this glade go through 
The changes of their quiet day. 

Then to their happy rest they pass! 
The flowers upclose, the birds are fed, 
The night comes down upon the grass. 
The child sleeps warmly in his bed. 

Calm soul of all things ! make it mine 
To feel, amid the city's jar, 
That there abides a peace of thine, 
Man did not make, and cannot mar. 



286 A JV/SH. 



The will to neither strive nor cry, 
The power to feel with others give ! 
Calm, calm me more ! nor let me die 
Before I have begun to live. 



A WISH. 



I ASK not that my bed of death 
From bands of greedy heirs be free; 
For these besiege the latest breath 
Of fortune's favour'd sons, not me. 

I ask not each kind soul to keep 
Tearless, when of my death he hears. 
Let those who will, if any, weep ! 
There are worse plagues on earth than tears. 

I ask but that my death may find 
The freedom to my life denied; 
Ask but the folly of mankind 
Then, then at last, to quit my side. 

Spare me the whispering, crowded room, 
The friends who come, and gape, and go; 
The ceremonious air of gloom — 
All, which makes death a hideous show 1 

Nor bring, to see me cease to live, 
Some doctor full of phrase and fame. 
To shake his sapient, head, and give 
The ill he cannot cure a name. 

Nor fetch, to take the accustom'd toll 
Of the poor sinner bound for death, 
His brother-dpctor of the soul. 
To canvass with ofi&cial breath 



A WISH. 287 

The future and its viewless tilings — 

Tiiat undiscover'd mystery 

Whiicli one wlio feels death's winnowing wings 

Must needs read clearer, sure, than he ! 

Bring none of these ; but let me be, 
While all around in silence lies. 
Moved to the window near, and see 
Once more, before my dying eyes, 

Bathed in the sacred dews of morn 
The wide aerial landscape spread — 
The world which was ere I was born, • 
The world which lasts when I am dead; 

Which never was the friend of one, 
Nor promised love it could not give. 
But lit for all its generous sun. 
And lived itself, and made us live. 

There let me gaze, till I become 
In soul, with what I gaze on, wed! 
To feel the universe my home; 
To have before my mind— instead 

Of the sick room, the mortal strife, 
The turmoil for a little breath — 
The pure eternal course of life, 
Not human combatings with death I 

Thus feeling, gazing, might I grow 
Composed, refresh'd, ennobled, clear; 
Then willing let my spirit go 
To work or wait elsewhere or here! 



288 THE FUTURE. 



THE FUTURE. 

A WANDERER is man from his birth. 

He was born in a ship 

On the breast of the river of Time; 

Brimming with wonder and joy 

He spreads out his arms to the light, 

Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream. 

As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been. 

Whether he wakes 

Where the snowy mountainous pass, 

Echoing the screams of the eagles, 

Hems in its gorges the bed 

Of the new-born clear -flowing stream ', 

Whether he first sees light 

Where the river in gleaming rings 

Sluggishly winds through the plain ; 

Whether in sound of the swallowing sea — 

As is the world on the banks. 

So is the mind of the man. 

Vainly does each, as he glides, 

Fable and dream 

Of the lands which the river of Time 

Had left ere he woke on its breast, 

Or shall reach when his eyes have been closed. 

Only the tract where he sails 

He wots of; only the thoughts. 

Raised by the objects he passes, are his. 

Who can see the green earth any more 
As she was by the sources of Time? 
Who imagines her fields as they lay 
In the sunshine, unworn by the plough? 



THE FUTURE. 2I 

Who thinks as they thought, 

The tribes who then roam'd on her breas^ 

Her vigorous, primitive sons? 

What girl 

Now reads in her bosom as clear 

As Rebekah read, when she sate 

At eve b}»the palrri-shaded well? 

Who guards in her breast 

As deep, as pellucid a spring 

Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure? 

What bard, 

At the height of his vision, can deem 

Of God, of the world, of the soul, 

With a plainness as near. 

As flashing as Moses felt. 

When he lay in the night by his flock 

On the starlit Arabian waste? 

Can rise and obey 

The beck of the Spirit like him? 

This tract which the river of Time 

Now flows through with us, is the plain. 

Gone is the calm of its earlier shore. 

Border'd by cities, and hoarse 

With a thousand cries is its stream. 

And we on its breast, our minds 

Are confused as the cries which we hear, 

Changing and shot as the sights which we see. 

And we say that repose has fled 
For ever the course of the river of Time. 
That cities will crowd to its edge 
In a blacker incessanter line ; 
That the din will be more on its banks, 
u 



290 THE FUTURE. 

Denser the trade on its stream, 

Flatter the plain where it flows, 

Fiercer the sun overhead. 

That never will those on its breast 

See an ennobling sight, 

Drink of the feeling of quiet again. 

But what was before us we know no% 
And we know not what shall succeed. 

Haply, the river of Time — 

As it grows, as the towns on its marge 

Fling their wavering lights 

On a wider, statelier stream — 

May acquire, if not the calm 

Of its early mountainous shore, 

Yet a solemn peace of its own. 

And the width of the waters, the hush 

Of the grey expanse where he floats, 

Freshening its current and spotted with foam 

As it draws to the Ocean, may strike 

Peace to the soul of the man on its breast — 

As the pale waste widens around him, 

As the banks fade dimmer away, 

As the stars come out, and the night-wind 

Brings up the stream • 

Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea. 



ELEGIAC POEMS. 



THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY." 

Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill ; 
Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes ! 
No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, 
Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, 
Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot another heati ; 
But when the fields are still. 
And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, 
And only the white sheep are sometimes seen 
Cross and recross the strips of moon-blancli'd 
green, 
Come, shepherd, and again renew the quest! 

Here, where the reaper was at work of late — 
In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves 

His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruise, 
And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves, 

Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use — 
Here will I sit and wait. 
While to my ear from uplands far away 

The bleating of the folded flocks is borne. 

With distant cries of reapers in the corn — 
All the live murmur of a summer's day. 

U 2 



293 THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY. 

Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field, 
And here till sun-down, shepherd ! will I be. 

Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, 
And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see 
Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep; 
And air-swept Undens yield 
Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed 
showers 
Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, 
And bower me from the August-sun with shade ; 
And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers. 

And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book — 
Come, let me read the oft-read tale again! 

The story of that Oxford scholar poor. 
Of shining parts and quick inventive brain, 
Who, tired of knocking at preferment's door, 
One summer-morn forsook 
His friends, and went to learn the gipsy-lore. 
And roam'd the world with that wild brother- 
hood, 
And came, as most men deem'd, to little good. 
But came to Oxford and his friends no more. 

But once, years after, in the country-lanes. 
Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew. 

Met him, and of his way of life enquired; 
Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy-crew, 
His mates, had arts to rule as they desired 
The workings of men's brains, 
And they can bind them to what thoughts they 
will. 
* And I,' he said, ' the secret of their art, 
When fully learn'd, will to the world impart; 
But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill.' 



THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY. 293 

This said, he left them, and return'd no more. — 
But rumours hung about the country-side, 

That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, 
Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, 
In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey, 
The same "the gipsies wore. 
Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring; 
At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors. 
On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd 
boors 
Had found him seated at their entering, 

But, mid their drink and clatter, he would fly. 
And I myself seem half to know thy looks. 

And put the shepherds, wanderer ! on thy trace ; 
And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks 

I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place ; 
Or" in my boat I lie 
Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer-heats. 

Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills, 

And watch the warm, green-muffled Cumner hills, 
And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. 

For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground ! 
Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe. 

Returning home on summer-nights, have met 
Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe, 
Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, 
As the punt's rope chops round ; 
• And leaning backward in a pensive dream, 
And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers 
Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood 
bowers. 
And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream. 



294 THE SCIIOLAR-GIPSY. 

And then they land, and thou art seen no more! — 
Maidens, who from the distant hamlets come 
To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, 
Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee 
roam, 
Or cross a stile into the public way; 
Oft thou hast given them store 
Of flowers — the frail-leaf'd, white anemony, 

Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves, 
And purple orchises with spotted leaves — 
But none hath words she can report of thee ! 

And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time's here 
In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, 

Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass, 
Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering 
Thames, 
To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass. 
Have often pass'd thee near 
Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown ; 

Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare, 
Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air — 
But, when they came from bathing, thou wast gone ! 

At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills, 
Where at her open door the housewife darns, 

Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate 
To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. 
Children, who early range these slopes and late 
For cresses from' the rills, 
Have known thee eying, all an April-day, 

The springing pastures and the feeding kine; 
And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and 
shine. 
Through the long dewy grass move slow away. 



THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY. 295 

In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood — 
Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way 
Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you 
see 
With scartet patches tagg'd and shreds of grey, 
Above the forest- ground called Thessaly — 
The blackbird picking food 
Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all; 
So often has he known thee past him stray, 
Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray, 
And waiting for the spark froir) heaven to fall. 

And once, in winter, on the causeway chill 

Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go, 
Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge 
Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow. 
Thy face toward Hinksey and its wintry ridge? 
And thou hast climb'd the hill. 
And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range ; 
Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snow- 
flakes fall. 
The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall — 
Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange. 

But what — I dream! Two hundred yeafs are flown 
Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls, 
And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe 
That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls 
To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe. 
And thou from earth art gone 
Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid — 
Some country-nook, where o'er thy unknown 

grave 
Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave, 
Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's shade. 



296 THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY. 

— No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours 1 
For what wears out the life of mortal men? 

'Tis that from change to change their being rolls ; 
'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, 

Exhaust the energy of strongest S9uls, 
And numb the elastic powers. 
Till having used our nerves wilh bliss and teen, 

And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit, 

To the just-pausing Genius we remit 
Our well-worn life, and are — what we have been. 

Thou hast not lived, why should'st thou perish, so ? 
Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire ; 
Else wert thou long since number'd with the 
dead ! 
Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy firel 
The generations of thy peers are fled, 
And we ourselves shall go; 
But thou possessest an immortal lot, 
And we imagine thee exempt from age, 
And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page, 
Because thou hadst — what we, alas ! have not. 

For early didst thou leave the world, with powers 
Fresh, undiverted to the world without. 

Firm to their mark, not spent on other things; 
Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt. 
Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, 
brings. 
O life unlike to ours ! 
Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, 

Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he 

strives. 
And each half lives a hundred different lives; 
Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. 



THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY. 297 

Thou waitest for the spark from heaven ! and we, 
Light half-believers of our casual creeds, 

Who never deeply felt, ror clearly will'd, 
Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, 

Whose vague resolves never have been fulfill'd; 
For whom each year we see 
Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new ; 

Who hesitate and falter life away, 

And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day — 
Ah 1 do not we, wanderer ! await it too ? 

Yes, we await it ! — but it still delays, 

And then we suffer ! and. amongst us one, 
Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly 
His seat upon the intellectual throne ; 
And all his store of sad experience he 
Lays bare of wretched days ; 
Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs, 
And how the dying spark of hope was fed, 
And how the breast was soothed, and how the 
head, 
And all his hourly varied anodynes. 

This for our wisest ! and we others pine, 

And wish the long unhappy dream would end, 

And waive all cTaim to bliss, and try to bear; 
With close -lipp'd patience for our only friend, 
Sad patience, too near neighbour to despair — 
But none has hope like thine ! 
Thou through the fields and through the woods 
dost stray. 
Roaming the country-side, a truant boy, 
Nursing thy project in unclouded joy, 
And every doubt long blown by time away. 



298 THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY. 

O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, 
And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames; 

Before this strange disease of modern life, 
With its sick hurry, its divided aims, 

Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife — 
Fly hence, our contact fear ! 
Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering woodl 

Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern 

From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, 
Wave us away, and keep thy solitude 1 

Still nursing the unconquerable hope, 
Still clutching the inviolable shade. 

With a free, onward impulse brushing through, 
By niglit, the silver'd branches of the glade — 

Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, 
On some mild pastoral slope 
Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales 

Freshen thy flowers as in former years 

With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, 
From the dark dingles, to the niglftingales ! 

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly ! 
For strong the infection of our mental strife, 

Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; 
And we should win thee from thy own fair hfe, 

Like us distracted, and like us unblest. 
Soon, soon thy cheer would die. 
Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy powers. 

And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made ; 

And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, 
Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. 

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles ! 
— As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, 



THYRSIS. 299 

Descried at sunrise an emerging prow 
Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily, 
The fringes of a southward-facing brow 
Among the ^gsean isles; 
And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, 

Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, 
Green, bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in 
brine — 
And knew the intruders on his ancient home, 

The young light-hearted masters of the waves — 
And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more p-=""1. 

And day and night held on indignantly 
O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, 
Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 
To where the Atlantic raves 
Outside the western straits, and unbent sails 
There where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets 

of foam, 
Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; 
And on the beach undid his corded bales. 



THYRSIS.18 



A Monody, to commemorate the author*s friend, 
Arthur Hugh Clough, wjho died at Florence, i86r. 

How changed is here each spot man makes or fills 1 
In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same ; 

The village street its haunted mansion lacks, 
And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name. 

And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks — 
Are ye too changed, ye hills? 



300- THYRSIS. 

See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men 

To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays ! 

Here came I often, often, in old days — 
Thyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis then. 

Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm, 
Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns 
The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames? 
The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs, 
The Vale, the three lone wears, the youthful 
Thames ? — 
This winter-eve is warm, 
Humid the air I leafless, yet soft as spring, 
The tender purple spray on copse and briers! 
And that sweet city with her dreaming spires, 
She needs not June for beauty's heightening, 

Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night ! — 
Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power 

Befalls me wandering through this upland dim. 
Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour ; 

Now seldom come I, since 1 came with him. 
That single elm-tree bright 
Against the west — I miss it ! is it gone ? 

We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said, 

Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead ; 
While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on. 

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here. 

But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick ; 

And with the country-folk acquaintance made 
By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick. 
Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assay'd. 
Ah me ! this many a year 
My pipe is lost, my shepherd's-holiday 1 



THYRSIS. 301 

Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart 
Into the world and wave of men depart, 
But Thyrsis of his own will went away. 

It irlc'd him to be here, he could not rest. 
He loved each simple joy the country yields, 

He loved his m^es ; but yet he could not keep. 
For that a shadow lower'd on the fields, 

Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep. 
Some life of men unblest 
He knew, which made him droop, and fiU'd his 
head. 
He went; his piping took a troubled sound 
Of storms that rage outside our happy ground ; 
He could not wait their passing, he is dead. 

So, some tempestuous morn in early June, 

When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er, 

Before the roses and the longest day — 
When garden-walks, and all the grassy floor. 

With blossoms red and white of fallen May, 
And chestnut-flowers are strewn — 
So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry. 

From the wet field, through the vext garden -trees. 

Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze : 
The hloom is gone, and tvith the bloom go 1 1 

Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go ? 
Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on, 
Soon will the musk carnations break and swell, 
Soon shall we have gold- dusted snapdragon, 
Sweet- William with his homely cottage-smell, 
And stocks in fragrant blow ; 
Roses that down the alleys shine afar, 
And open, jasmine-muftled lattices, 



3oa TIIYRSIS. 

And groups under the dreaming garden-trees, 
And the full moon, and the white evening-star. 

He hearkens not 1 light comer, he is flown ! 
What matters it? next year he will return. 

And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days, 
With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern. 

And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways, 
And scent of hay new- mown. 
But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see; 

See him come back, and cut a smoother reed, 

And blow a strain the world at last shall heed — 
For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer'd thee! 

Alack, for Corydon no rival now ! — 

But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate. 

Some good survivor with his flute would go, 
Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate; 

And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow, 
And relax Pluto's brow. 
And make leap up with joy the beauteous head 

Of Proserpine, among whose crowned hair 

Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air. 
And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead, 

O easy access to the hearer's grace 

When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine 1 

For she herself had trod Sicilian fields. 
She knew the Dorian water's gush divine, 

She knew each lily white which Enna }-ields, 
Each rose with blushing face ; 
She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain. 

But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard 1 

Her foot the Cumncr cowslips never stirr'd; 
And we should tease her with our plaint in vain 1 



THYRSIS. 303 

Well ! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be, 
Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour 

In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill ! 
Who, if not I, for questing here hath power? 

I know the wood which hides the daffodil, 
I know the Fy field tree, 
I know what white, what purple fritillaries 

The grassy harvest of the river-fields. 

Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields, 
And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries ; 

I know these slopes; who knows them if not I? — 
But many a dingle on the loved hill-side, 

With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd 
trees, 
Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried 
High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises, 
Hath since our day put by 
The coronals of that forgotten time; 

Down each green bank hath gone the plough- 
boy's team, 
And only in the hidden brookside gleam 
Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime. 

Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door. 
Above the locks, above the boating throng, 

Unmoor'd our skiff when through the Wytham 
flats, 
Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among 
And darting swallows and light water-gnats, 
We track'd the shy Thames shore? 
Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell 
Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass, 
Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass?— 
They all are gone, and thou art gone as well I 



304 THYRSIS. 

Yes, thou art gone ! and round me too the night 
In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade. 

I see her veil draw soft across the day, 
1 feel her slowly chilling breath invade 

The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent 
with grey ; 
I feel her finger light 
Laid pausefuUy upon life's headlong train ; — 
The foot less prompt to meet' the morning dew, 
The heart less bounding at emotion new. 
And hope, once crush' d, less quick to spring again. 

And long the way appears, which seem'd so short 
To the less practised eye of sanguine youth ; 

And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air, 
The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth, 

Tops in hfe's morning-sun so bright and bare! 
Unbreachable the fort 
Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall; 

And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows, 

And near and real the charm of thy repose, 
And night as welcome as a friend would fall. 

But hush ! the upland hath a sudden loss 
Of quiet! — Look, adown the dusk hillside, 
A troop of Oxford hunters going home. 
As in old days, jovial and talking, ride ! 

From hunting with the Berkshire hounds they 
come. 
Quick! let me fly, and cross 
Into yon farther field ! — 'Tis done ; and see, 
Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorify 
The orange and pale violet evening-sky. 
Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree ! the Tree I 



TIIYRSIS, 305 

I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil, 

The white fog creeps from bush to bush about, 

The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright, 
And in the scatter'd farms the lights come out. 

I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night/ 
Yet, happy omen, hail! 
Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale 

(For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keep 

The morningless and unawakening sleep 
Under the flowery oleanders pale), 

Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there! — 

Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland dim, 

These brambles pale with mist engarlanded, 
That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him ; 

To a boon southern country he is fled, 
And now in happier air, 
Wandering with the great Mother's train divine 

(And purer or more subtle soul than thee, 

I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see) 
Within a folding of the Apennine, 

Thou hearest the immortal chants of old ! 
Putting his sickle to the perilous grain 

In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king, 
For thee the Lityerses-song again 

Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth 
sing;i« 
Sings his Sicilian fold, 
His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes — 
And how a call celestial round him rang. 
And heavenward from the fountain-brink he 
sprang, 
And all the marvel of the golden skies. 



30 6 TBYRSIS. 

There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here 
Sole in these fields ! yet will I not despair. 

Despair I will not, while I yet descry 
'Neath the soft canopy of English air 

That lonely tree against the western sky. 
Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear. 
Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee! 

Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay, 

Woods with anemonies in flower till May, 
Know him a wanderer still; then why not me? 

A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, 
Shy to illumine ; and I seek it too. 

This does not come with houses or with gold, 
With place, with honour, and a flattering crew; 
'Tis not in the world's market bought and 
sold — 
But the smooth-slipping weeks 
Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired; 
Out of the heed of mortals he is gone, 
He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone; 
Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired. 

Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound! 
Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour ! 

Men gave thee nothing ; but this happy quest. 
If men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power, 
If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. 
And this rude Cumner ground. 
Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields. 
Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time, 
Here was thine height of strength, thy golden 
prime ! 
And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields. 



MEMORIAL VERSES. 307 

What though the music of thy rustic flute 
Kept not for long its happy, country tone; 

Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note 
Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, 
Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy 
throat — 
It fail'd, and thou wast mute ! 
Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light, 

And long with men of care thou couldst not stay, 
And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way. 
Left human haunt, and on alone till night. 

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! 
'Mid city -noise, not, as with thee of yore, 

Thyrsis ! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. 
— Then through the great town's harsh, heart- 
wearying roar, 
Let in thy voice a whisper often come, 
To chase fatigue and fear : 
Why faintest thou? I wander d till I died. 
Roam on ! The light we sought is shining still. 
Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the hili, 
Our Scholar travels yet the loved hillside. 



MEMORIAL VERSES. 

April, 1850. 

Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, 
Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease. 
But one such death remain'd to come; 
The last poetic voice is dumb — 
We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb. 
X 2 



3oS MEMORIAL VERSES. 

When Byron's eyes were shut in death, 
We bow'd our head and held our breath. 
He taught us Uttlc; but our soul 
Hady^// him like the thunder's roll. 
With shivering heart the strife we saw 
Of passion with eternal law ; 
And yet with reverential awe 
We w^atch'd the fount of fiery life 
Which served for that Titanic strife. 

When Goethe's death was told, we said: 

Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head. 

Physician of the iron age, 

Goethe has done his pilgrimage. 

He took the suffering human race. 

He read each wound, each weakness clear; 

And struck his finger on the place, 

And said : Thou ailest here, and here ! 

He look'd on Europe's dying hour 

Of fitful dream and feverish power ; 

His eye plunged down the weltering strife, 

The turmoil of expiring life — 

He said : The end is everywhere, 

Art still has truth, take refuge there ! 

And he was happy, if to know 

Causes of things, and far below 

"His feet to see the lurid flow 

Of terror, and insane distress, 

And headlong fate, .be happiness. 

And Wordsworth ! — Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice I 
For never has such soothing voice 
Been to your shadowy world convey'd, 
Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade 



MEMORIAL VERSES. 309 

Heard the clear song of Orpheus come 
Through Hades, and the mournful gloom. 
Wordsworth has gone from us — and ye. 
Ah, may ye feel his voice as we 1 
He too upon a wintry clime 
Had fallen — on this iron time 
Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. 
He found us when the age had bound 
Our souls in its benumbing round; 
He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. 
He laid us as we lay at birth 
On the cool flowery lap of earth. 
Smiles broke from us and we had ease; 
The hills were round us, and the breeze 
Went o'er the sun-Ht fields again; 
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. 
Our youth return'd ; for there was shed 
On spirits that had long been dead, 
Spirits dried up and closely furl'd, 
The freshness of the early world. 

Ah ! since dark days still bring to light 
Man's prudence and man's fiery might, 
Time may restore us in his course 
Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force; 
But where will Europe's latter hour 
Again find Wordsworth's healing power? 
Others will teach us how to dare. 
And* against fear our breast to steel; 
Others will strengthen us to bear — 
But who, ah ! who, will make us feel ? 
The cloud of mortal destiny. 
Others will front it fearlessly — 
But who, like him, will put it by? 



.VO STANZAS. 

Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, 
O Rotha, with thy living wave 1 
Sing him thy best ! for few or none 
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone. 



STANZAS 
In Memory of Edward Quillinan. 

I SAW him sensitive in frame, 

I knew his spirits low ; 
And wish'd him health, success, and fame- 

I do not wish it now. 

For these are all their own reward, 

And leave no good behind; 
They try us, oftenest make us hard, 

Less modest, pure, and kind. 

Alas ! yet to the suffering man, 
In this his mortal state. 

Friends could not give what fortune can- 
Health, ease, a heart elate. 

But he is now by fortune foil'd 

No more; and we retain 
The memory of a man unspoil'd, 

Sweet, generous, and humane — 

With all the fortunate have not. 

With gentle voice and brow. 
— Alive, we would have changed his lot. 

We would not change it now. 



STANZAS FROM CARNAC. 311 



STANZAS FROM CARNAC. 

Far on its rocky knoll descried 
Saint Michael's chapel cuts the sky. 
I climb'd ; — beneath me, bright and wide, 
Lay the lone coast of Brittany. 

Bright in the sunset, weird and still, 
It lay beside the Atlantic wave, 
As though the wizard Merlin's will 
Yet charm'd it from his forest-grave. 

Behind me on their grassy sweep, 
Bearded with lichen, scrawl'd and grey. 
The giant stones of Carnac sleep, 
In the mild evening of the May. 

No priestly stern procession now 
Streams through their rows of pillars old ; 
No victims bleed, no Druids bow — 
Sheep make the daisied aisles their fold. 

From bush to bush the cuckoo flies. 
The orchis red gleams everywhere ; 
Gold furze with broom in blossom vies, 
The blue-bells perfume all the air. 

And o'er the glistening, lonely land. 
Rise up, all round, the Christian spires ; 
The church of Carnac, by the strand. 
Catches the westering sun's last fires. 

And there, across the watery way. 
See, low above the tide at flood, 
The sickle-sweep of Quiberon Bay, 
Whose beach once ran with loyal blood! 



3X2 A SOUTHERN NIGHT. 

And beyond that, the Atlantic wide! — 
All round, no soul, no boat, no hail; 
But, on the horizon's verge descried, 
Kangs, touch'd with light, one snowy sail ! 

Ah! where is he, who should have come** 
Where that far sail is passing now, 
Past the Loire's mouth, and by the foam 
Of Finistere's unquiet brow. 

Home, round into the English wave? — 
He tarries where the Rock of Spain 
. Mediterranean waters lave; 
He enters not the Atlantic main. 

Oh, could he once have reach'd this air ' 
Freshen'd by plunging tides, by showers ! 
Have felt this breath he loved, of fair 
Cool northern fields, and grass, and flowers! 

He long'd for it — press'd on. — In vain I 
At the Straits fail'd that spirit brave. 
The south was parent of his pain. 
The south is mistress of his grave. 



A SOUTHERN NIGHT. 

The sandy spits, the shore-lock'd lakes. 

Melt into open, moonlit sea; 
The soft Mediterranean breaks 
At my feet, free. 

Dotting the fields of corn and vine, 

Like ghosts, the huge, gnarl'd olives stand 
Behind, that lovely mountain-line ! 
While, by the strand, 



A SOUTHERN NIGHT. 313 

Cette, with its glistening houses white, 
Curves with the curving beach away 
To where the lighthouse beacons bright 
Far in the bay. 

Ah! such a night, so soft, so lone, 

So moonlit, saw me once of yore^^ 
Wander unquiet, and my own 
Vext heart deplore. 

But now that trouble is forgot; 

Thy memory, thy pain, to-night. 
My brother! and thine early lot,*^^ 
Possess me quite. 

The murmur of this Midland deep 

Is heard to-night around thy grave, 
There, where Gibraltar's cannon' d steep 
O'erfrowns the wave. 

For there, with bodily anguish keen, 
With Indian heats at last fordone, 
With public toil and private teen — 

Thou sank'st, alofte. 
Slow to a stop, at morning grey, 

I see the smoke-crown'd vessel come; 
Slow round her paddles dies away 
The seething foam. 

A boat is lower'd from her side; 

Ah, gently place him on the bench I 
That spirit — if all have not yet died — 

A breath might quench. 
Is this the eye, the footstep fast. 

The mien of youth we used to see, 
Poor, gallant boy ! — for such thou wast, 
Still art, to me. 



314 A SOUTHERN NIGHT. 

The limbs their wonted tasks refuse; 

The eyes are glazed, thou canst not speak; 
And whiter than thy white burnous 
That wasted cheek ! 

Enough ! The boat, with quiet shock, 

Unto its haven coming nigh, ' 
Touches, and on Gibraltar's rock 
Lands thee, to die. 

Ah me ! Gibraltar's strand is far, 
But farther yet across the brine 
Thy dear wife's ashes buried are, 
Remote from thine. 

For there, where morning's sacred fount 
Its golden rain on earth confers, 
, The snowy Himalayan Mount 
O'ershadows her. 

Strange irony of fate, alas, 

Which, for two jaded English, saves, 
When from their dusty life they pass, 
Such peaceful graves ! 

In cities should we English lie. 

Where cries are rising ever new, 
And men's incessant stream goes by — 
We who pursue 

Our business with unslackening stride, 

Traverse in troops, with care-fiU'd breast, 
The soft Mediterranean side, 
The Nile, the East, 

And see all sights from pole to pole, 

And glance, and nod, and bustle by ; 
And never once possess our soul 
Before we die. 



A SOUTHERN NIGHT. 315 

Not by those hoary Indian hills, 

Not by this gracious Midland sea 
Whose floor to-night sweet moonshine fills, 
Should our graves be. 

Some sage, to whom the world was dead, 
And men were specks, and life a play; 
Who made the roots of trees his bed, 
And once a day 

With staif and gourd his way did bend 

To villages and homes of man, 
For food to keep him till he end 
His mortal span 

And the pure goal of being reach ; 

Grey-headed, wrinkled, clad in white, 
Without companion, without speech, 
By day and night 

Pondering God's mysteries untold. 

And tranquil as the glacier-snows— 
He by those Indian mountains old 
Blight well repose. 

Some grey crusading knight austere, 

Who bore Saint Louis company, 
And came home hurt to death, and here 
Iianded to die ; 

Some youthful troubadour, whose tongue 
Fill'd Europe once with his love-pain. 
Who here outworn had sunk, and sun^ 
His dying strain ; 

Some girl, who here from castle-bower, 
With furtive step and cheek of flame, 
'Twixt myrtle-hedges all in flower 
By moonlight came 



3i6 A SOUTHERN NTGIIT. 

To meet her pirate-lover's ship, 

And from the wave-kiss'd marble stair 
Beckon'd him on, with quivering lip 
And floating hair. 

And lived some moons in happy trance, 

Then learnt his death and pined away — ■ 
Such by these waters of romance 
'Twas meet to lay. 

But you — a grave for knight or sage. 
Romantic, solitary, still, 

spent ones of a work-day agel 

Befits you ill. 

So sang I; but the midnight breeze, 

Down to the brimm'd, moon-charmed main, 
Comes softly through the olive-trees, 
And checks my strain. 

1 think of her, whose gentle tongue, 

All plaint in her own cause controU'd; 
Of thee I think, my brother ! young 
In heart, high-soul'd — 

That comely face, that cluster'd brow, 

That cordial hand, that bearing free, 
I see them still, I see them now, 

Shall always see ! « 

And what but gentleness untired. 

And what but noble feeling warm, 
Wherever shewn, howe'er inspired. 
Is grace, is charm.? 

What else is all these waters are, 

What else is steep 'd in lucid sheen, 
What else is bright, what else is fair, 
What else serene? 



HA WORTH CHURCHYARD. 317 

Mild o'er her grave, ye mountains, shine! 

Gently by his, ye waters, glide! 
To that in you which is divine 
They were allied. 



HAWORTH CHURCHYARD. 

April, 1855. 

Where, under Loughrigg, the stream 
Of Rotha sparkles through fields 
Vested for ever with green. 
Four years since, in the house 
Of a gende spirit now dead, 
Wordsworth's son-in-law, friend — 
I saw the meeting of two 
Gifted women.2^ The one, 
Brilliant with recent renown, 
Young, unpractised, had told 
With a master's accent her feign'd 
Story of passionate life; 
The other, maturer in fame, 
Earning, she too, her praise 
First in fiction, had since 
Widen'd her sweep, and survey'd 
History, politics, mind. 

The two held converse; they wrote 
In a book which of world-famous souls 
Kept the memorial; — bard. 
Warrior, statesman, had sign'd 
Their names; chief glory of all, 
Scott had bestow'd there his last 
Breathings of song, with a pen 
Tottering, a death-stricken hand. 



3i8 HA WORTH CHURCHYARD. 

Hope at that meeting smiled fair. 
Years in number, it seem'd, 
Lay before both, and a fame 
Heighten'd and multiplied power. — 
Behold ! The elder, to-day, 
Lies expecting from death, 
In mortal weakness, a last 
Summons ! the younger is dead ! 

First to the living we pay 
Mournful homage ; — the Muse 
Gains not an earth-deafen'd ear. 

Hail to the steadfast soul, 
Which, unflinchiyg and keen, 
Wrought to erase from its depth 
Mist and illusion and fear ! 
Hail to the spirit which dared 
Trust its own thoughts, before yet 
Echoed her back by the crowd ! 
Hail to the courage which gave 
Voice to its creed, ere the creed 
■ Won consecration from time ! 

Turn we next to the dead. — 
How shall we honour the young, 
The ardent, the gifted.? how mourn? 
Console we cannot, her ear 
Is deaf. Far northward from here. 
In a churchyard high 'mid the moors 
Of Yorkshire, a little earth 
Stops it for ever to praise. 

Where behind Keighley the road 
Up to the heart of the moors 
Between heath-clad showery hills 



HA WORTH CHURCHYARD. 319 

Runs, and colliers' carts 

Poach the deep ways coming down, 

And a rough, grimed race have their homes — 

There on its slope is built 

The moorland town. But the church 

Stands on the crest of the hill, 

Lonely and bleak ; — at its side 

The parsonage-house and the graves. 

Strew with laurel the grave 
Of the early-dying ! Alas, 
Early she goes on the path 
To the silent country, and leaves 
Half her laurels unwon, 
Dying too soon ! yet green 
Laurels she had, and a course 
Short, but redoubled by fame. 

And not friendless, and not 

Only with strangers to meet, 

Faces ungreeting and cold, 

Thou, O mourn'd one, to-day 

Enterest the house of the grave! 

Those of thy blood, whom thou lov'dst, 

Have preceded thee — young, 

Loving, a sisterly band; 

Some in art, some in gift 

Inferior — all in fame. 

They, like friends, shall receive 

This comer, greet her with joy; 

Welcome the sister, the friend; 

Hear with delight of thy fame ! 

Round thee they lie — the grass 
Blows from their graves to thy own 1 
She, whose genius, though not 



320 II A WORTH CHURCHYARD. 

Puissant like thine, was yet 

Sweet and graceful ; — and she 

(How shall I sing her?) whose soul 

Knew no fellow for might, 

Passion, vehemence, grief, 

Daring, since Byron died, 

That world-famed son of fire — she, who sank 

Baffled, unknown, self-consumed; 

Whose too bold dying song'^* 

Shook, like a clarion-blast, my soul. 

Of one, too, I have heard, 

A brother — sleeps he here? 

Of all that gifted race 

Not the least gifted; young, 

Unhappy, eloquent — the child 

Of many hopes, of many tears. 

O boy, if here thou sleep'st, sleep well! 

On thee too did the Muse 

Bright in thy cradle smile; 

But some dark shadow came 

(I know not what) and interposed. 

Sleep, O cluster of friends. 

Sleep ! — or only when May, 

Brought by the west-wind, returns 

Back to your native heaths, 

And the plover is heard on the moors, 

Yearly awake to behold 

The opening summer, the sky, 

The shining moorland — to hear 

The drowsy bee, as of old, 

Hum o'er the thyme, the grouse 

Gall from the heather in bloom! 

Sleep, or only for this 

Break your united repose! 



RUGBY CHAPEL. 321 

EPILOGUE. 

So I sang; but the Muse, 
Shaking her head, took the harp — 
Stern interrupted my strain, 
Angrily smote on the chords. 

April showers 

Rush o'er the Yorkshire moors. 
Stormy, through driving mist, 
Loom the blurr'd hills ; the rain 
Lashes the newly-made grave. 

Unquiet souls! 

— In the dark fermentation of earth, 

In the never idle workshop of nature,' 

In the eternal movement, 

Ye shall find yourselves again 1 



RUGBY CHAPEL. 

November, 1857. 

Coldly, sadly descends 

The autumn-evening. The field 

Strewn with its dank yellow drifts 

Of wither'd leaves, and the elms, 

Fade into dimness apace, 

Silent; — hardly a shout 

From a few boys late at their play I 

The lights come out in the street. 

In the school-room windows — but cold, 

Solemn, unlighted, austere. 

Through the gathering darkness, arise 

Y 



322 RUGBY CHAPEL. 

The chapel-walls, in whose bound 
Thou, my father ! art laid. 

There thou dost lie, in the gloom 
Of the autumn evening. But ah 1 
That word, gloom, to my mind 
Brings thee back in the light 
Of thy radiant vigour again ; 
In the gloom of November we pass'd 
Days not dark at thy 'side; 
Seasons impair'd not the ray 
. Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear. 
Such thou wast! and I stand 
In the autumn evening, and think 
Of bygone autumns with thee. 

Fifteen years have gone round 
Since thou arosest to tread, 
In the summer-morning, the road 
Of death, at a call unforeseen, 
Sudden. For fifteen years. 
We who till then in thy shade 
Rested as under the boughs 
Of a mighty oak, have endured 
Sunshine and rain as we might, 
Bare, unshaded, alone, 
Lacking the shelter of thee. 

O strong soul, by what shore 
Tarriest thou now? For that force, 
Surely, has not been left vain 1 
Somewhere, surely, afar, 
In the sounding labour-house vast 
Of being, is practised that strength, 
Zealous, beneficent, firm ! 



RUGBY CHAPEL. 323 

Yes, in some far-shining sphere, 
Conscious or not of the past, 
Still thou performest the word 
Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live — 
Prompt, unwearied, as here! 
Still thou upraisest with zeal 
The humble good from the ground, 
Sternly repressest the bad ! 
Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse 
Those who with half-open eyes 
Tread the border-land dim 
'Twixt'vice and virtue; reviv'st, 
Succourest ! — this was thy work, 
This was thy life upon earth; 

What is the course of the life 
Of mortal men on the earth? — 
Most men eddy about 
Here and there — eat and drink. 
Chatter and love and hate, 
Gather and squander, are raised 
Aloft, art hurl'd in the dust, 
Striving blindly, achieving 
Nothing ; and then they die — 
Perish — and no one asks 
Who or what they have been, 
More than he asks what waves, 
In the moonlit soHtudes mild 
Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd, 
Foam'd for a moment, and gone. 

And there are some, whom a thirst 
Ardent, unquenchable, fires. 
Not with the crowd to be spent, 

Y 2 



324 RUGBY CHAPEL. 

Not without aim to go round 
In an eddy of purposeless dust. 
Effort unmeaning and vain. 
Ah yes! some of us strive 
Not without action to die 
Fruitless, but something to snatch 
From dull oblivion, nor all 
Glut the devouring grave ! 
We, we have chosen our path — 
Path to a clear-purposed goal, 
Path of advance ! — but it leads 
A long, steep journey, through sunk 
Gorges, o'er mountains in snow. 
Cheerful, with friends, we set forth — 
Then, on the height, comes the storm. 
Thunder crashes from rock 
. To rock, the cataracts reply; 
Lightnings dazzle our eyes; 
Roaring torrents have breach'd 
The track, the stream-bed descends 
In the place where the wayfarer once 
Planted his footstep — the spray 
Boils o'er its borders! aloft 
The unseen snow-beds dislodge 
Their hanging ruin 1 — alas. 
Havoc is made in our train I 
Friends, who set forth at our side, 
Falter, are lost in the storm. 
We, we only are left! — 
With frowning foreheads, with lips 
Sternly compress'd, we strain on, 
On — and at nightfall at last 
Come to the end of our way, 
To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks; 



RUGBY CHAPEL. 325 

Where the gaunt and taciturn host 
Stands on the threshold, the wind 
Shaking his thin white hairs — 
Holds his lantern to scaii 
Our storm-beat figures, and asks : 
Whom in our party we bring? 
Whom we have left in the snow? 

Sadly we answer: We bring 
Only ourselves! we lost 
Sight of the rest in the storm. 
Hardly ourselves we fought through, 
Stripp'd, without friends, as we are. 
Friends, companions, and train, 
The avalanche swept from our side. 

But thou would'st not alone 
Be saved, my father ! alone 
Conquer and come to thy goal. 
Leaving the rest in the wild. 
We were weai^, and we 
Fearful, and we in our march 
Fain to drop down and to die. 
Still thou turnedst, and still 
Beckonedst the trembler, and still 
Gavest the weary thy hand. 
If, in the paths of the world, 
Stones might have wounded thy' feet, 
Toil or dejection have tried 
Thy spirit, of that we saw 
Nothing — to us thou wast still 
Cheerfulj and helpful, and firm ! 
Therefore to thee it was given 
Many to save with thyself; 



326 RUGBY CHAPEL. 

And, at the end of thy day, 
O faithful shepherd ! to come, 
Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. 

And through thee I believe 

In the noble and great who are gone; 

Pure souls honour'd and blest 

By former ages, who else — 

Such, so soulless, so poor, 

Is the race of men whom I see — 

Seem'd but a dream of the heart, 

Seem'd but a cry of desire. 

Yes! I believe that there lived 

Others like thee in the past, 

Not like the men of the crowd 

Who all round me to-day 

Bluster or cringe, and make life 

Hideous, and arid, and vile ; 

But souls temper'd with fire, 

Fervent, heroic, and good. 

Helpers and friends of mankind. 

Servants of God ! — or sons 
Shall I not call you? because 
Not as servants ye knew 
Your Father's innermost mind, 
His, who unwillingly sees 
One -of his little ones lost — 
Yours is the praise, if mankind 
Hath not as yet in its march 
Fainted, and fallen, and died ! 

See ! In the rocks of the world 
Marches the host of mankind, 
A feeble, wavering line. 



RUGBY CHAPEL. 327 

Where are they tending? — A God 
Marshall'd them, gave them their goal. — 
Ah, but the way is so long ! 

Years they have. been in the wild! 
Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks, 
Rising all round, overawe ; 
Factions divide them, their host 
Threatens to break, to dissolve, — 
Ah, keep, keep them combined! 
Else, of the myriads who fill 
That army, not one shall arrive; 
Sole they shall stray ; on the rocks 
Batter for ever in vain, 
Die one by one in the waste. 

Then, in such hour of need 

Of your fainting, dispirited race, 

Ye, like angels, appear. 

Radiant with ardour divine. 

Beacons of hope, ye appear! 

Languor is not in your heart. 

Weakness is not in your word, 

Weariness not on your brow. 

Ye alight in our van ! at your voice, 

Panic, despair, flee away. 

Ye move through the ranks, recall 

The stragglers, refresh the outworn, 

Praise, re-inspire the brave. 

Order, courage, return ; 

Eyes rekindling, and prayers, 

Follow your steps as ye go. 

Ye fill up the gaps in our files, 

Strengthen the wavering line, 



328 HEINl^S GRAVE. 

Stablish, continue our march, 
On, to the bound of the waste, 
On, to the City of God. 



HEINE'S GRAVE. 

' Henri Heine ' 'tis here ! 

The black tombstone, the name 

Carved there — no more! and the smooth. 

Swarded alleys, the limes 

Touch'd with yellow by hot 

Summer, but under them still. 

In September's bright afternoon, 

Shadow, and verdure, and cool. 

Trim Montmartre ! the faint 

Murmur of Paris outside; 

Crisp everlasting-flowers. 

Yellow and black, on the graves. 

Half blind, palsied, in pain. 
Hither to come, from the streets' 
Uproar, surely not loath 
Wast thou, Heine ! — to lie 
Quiet, to ask for closed 
Shutters, and darken'd room, 
And cool drinks, and an eased 
Posture, and opium, no more; 
Hither to come, and to sleep 
Under the wings of Renown. 

Ah! not little, when pain 
Is most quelling, and man 



HEINE'S GRAVE. 329 

Easily quell'd, and the fine 
Temper of genius so soon 
Thrills at each smart, is the praise, 
Not to have yielded to pain ! 
No small boast, for a weak 
Son of mankind, to the earth 
Pinn'd by the thunder, to rear 
His bolt-scathed front to the stars; 
And, undaunted, retort 
'Gainst thick-crashing, insane, 
Tyrannous tempests of bale. 
Arrowy lightnings of soul. 

Hark! through the alley resounds 
Mocking laughter ! A film 
Creeps o'er the sunshine; a breeze 
Ruffles the warm afternoon, 
Saddens my soul with its chill. 
Gibing of spirits in scorn 
Shakes every leaf of the grove, 
Mars the benignant repose 
Of this amiable home of the dead. 

Bitter spirits, ye claim 

Heine? Alas, he is yours I 

Only a moment I long'd 
Here in the quiet to snatch 
From such mates the outworn 
Poet, and steep him in calm. 
Only a moment 1 I knew 
Whose he was who is here 
Buried — I knew he was yours! 
Ah, I knew that I saw 
Here no sepulchre built 
In the laurell'd rock, o'er the blue 



330 HEINE'S GRAVE, 

Naples bay, for a sweet 

Tender Virgil ! no tomb 

On Ravenna sands, in the shade 

Of Ravenna pines, for a high 

Austere Dante ! no grave 

By the Avon side, in the bright 

Stratford meadows, for thee, 

Shakspeare 1 loveliest of souls, 

Peerless in radiance, in joy I 

What, then, so harsh and malign, 
Heine ! distils from thy life ? 
Poisons the peace of thy grave? 

I chide with thee not, that thy sharp 

Upbraidings often assail'd 

England, my country — for we, 

Heavy and sad, for her sons, 

Long since, deep in our hearts. 

Echo the blame of her foes. 

We, too, sigh that she flags; 

We, too, say that she now — 

Scarce comprehending the voice 

Of her greatest, golden-mouth'd sons 

Of a former age any more — 

Stupidly travels her round 

Of mechanic business, and lets 

Slow die out of her life 

Glory, and genius, and joy. 

So thou arraign'st her, her foe; 
So we arraign her, her sons. 

Yes, we arraign her ! but she, 
The weary Titan, with deaf 



HEINE'S GRAVE. 

Ears, and labour-dimm'd eyes, 
Regarding neither to right 
Nor left, goes passively by, 
Staggering on to her goal; 
Bearing on shoulders immense, 
Atlantean, the load, 
Wellnigh not to be borne, 
Of the too vast orb of her fate. 

But was it, thou— I think 

Surely it was ! — that bard 

Unnamed, who, Goethe said, 

Had every other gift, but wanted love; 

Love, without which the tongue 

Even of angels sounds amiss? 

Charm is the glory which makes 

Song of the poet divine, 

Love is the fountain of charm. 

How \\ithout charm wilt thou dra>\r. 

Poet ! the world to thy way ? 

Not by the lightnings of wit — 

Not by the thunder of scorn! 

These to the world, too, are given; 

Wit it possesses, and scorn— 

Charm is the poet's alone. 

Holloiu and dull are the great. 

And artists envious, and the mob profane. 

We know all this, we know ! 

Cam'st thou from heaven, O child 

Of liglit! but "this to declare? 

Alas, to help us forget 

Such barren knowledge awhile, 

God gave the poet his song I 



331 



332 HEINE'S GRAVE. 

Therefore a secret unrest 
Tortured thee, brilliant and bold I 
Therefore triumph itself 
Tasted amiss to thy soul. 
Therefore, with blood of thy foes, 
Trickled in silence thine own. 
Therefore the victor's heart 
Broke on the field of his fame. 

Ah ! as of old, from the pomp 
Of Italian Milan, the fair 
Flower of marble of white 
Southern palaces — steps 
Border'd by statues, and walks 
Terraced, and orange-bowers 
Heavy with fragrance — the blond 
German Kaiser full oft 
Long'd himself back to the fields, 
Rivers, and high-roof'd towns 
Of his native Germany; so, 
So, how often ! from hot 
Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps 
Blazing, and brilliant crowds, 
Starr'd and jewell'd, of men 
Famous, of women the queens 
Of dazzling converse — from fumes 
Of praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain 
That mount, that madden — how oft 
Heine's spirit outworn 
Long'd itself out of the din, 
Back to the tranquil, the cool 
Far German home of his youth! 

See! in the May-afternoon, 

O'er the fresh, short turf of the Hartz, 



HEINE'S GRAVE. 333 

A youth, with the foot of youth, 

Heine ! thou climbest again ! 

Up, through the tall dark firs 

Warming their heads in the sun, 

Chequering the grass with their shade — 

Up, by the stream, with its huge 

Moss-hung boulders, and thin 

Musical water half-hid — 

Up, o'er the rock-strewn slope, 

With the sinking sun, and the air 

Chill, and the shadows now 

Long on the grey hill-side — 

To the stone-roofd hut at the top! 

Or, yet later, in watch 

On the roof of the Brocken-tower 

Thou standest, gazing! — to see 

The broad red sun, over field, 

Forest, and city, and spire, 

And mist-track'd stream of the wide 

Wide German land, going down 

In a bank of vapours again 

Standest, at nightfall, alone 1 

Or, next morning, with limbs 
Rested by slumber; and heart 
Freshen'd and light with the May, 
O'er the gracious spurs coming down 
Of the Lower Hartz, among oaks 
And beechen coverts, and copse 
Of hazels green in whose depth 
Use, the fairy transform'd, 
In a thousand water-breaks light 
Pours her petulant youth — 
Climbing the rock which juts 



3.34 HEINE'S GRAVE. 

O'er the valley — the dizzily perch'd 
Rock — to its iron cross 
Once more thou cling'st ; to the Cross 
Clingestl with smiles, with a sighl 

Goethe, too, had been there.^' 
In the long-past winter he came 
To the frozen Hartz, with his soul 
Passionate, eager — his youth 
All in ferment! — but he 
Destined to work and to live 
Left it, and thou, alas! 
Only to laugh and to die. 

But something prompts me : Not thus 

Take leave of Heine ! not thus 

Speak the last word at his grave 1 

Not in pity, and not 

With half censure — with awe 

Hail, as it passes from earth 

Scattering lightnings, that soull 

The Spirit of the world, 

Beholding the absurdity of men — 

Their vaunts, their feats — let a sardonic smile, 

For one short moment, wander o'er his lips. 

That smile was Heine! — for its earthly hour 

The strange guest sparkled ; now 'tis pass'd away. 

That was Heine ! and we, 
Myriads who live, who have lived, 
What are we all, but a moo'd, 
A single mood, of the life 
Of the Spirit in whom we exist, 
Who alone is all things in one? 



THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE. ' 335 

Spirit, who fillest us all! 
Spirit, who utterest in each 
New-coming son of mankind 
Such of thy thoughts as thou wilt I 
O thou, one of whose moods, 
Bitter and strange, was the life 
Of Heine — his strange, alas, 
His bitter Hfe! — may a life 
Other and milder be mine! 
May'st thou a mood more serene, 
Happier, have utter'd in mine! 
May'st thou the rapture of peace 
Deep have embreathed at its core; 
Made it a ray of thy thought, 
Made it a beat of thy joyl 



STANZAS FROM 
THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE. 

Through Alpine meadows soft-suifused 
With rain, where thick the crocus blows. 
Past the dark forges long disused, 
The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes. 
The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride, 
Through forest, up the mountain-side. 

The autumnal evening darkens round, 
The wind is up, and drives the rain; 
While, hark ! far down, with strangled sound 
Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain. 
Where that wet smoke, among the woods, 
Over his boiling cauldron broods. 



336 STANZAS FROM 

Swift rush the spectral vapours white 
Past limestone scars with ragged pines, 
Showing — then blotting from our sight! — 
Halt — through the cloud-drift something shines ! 
High in the valley, wet and drear, 
The huts of Courrerie appear. 

Strike leftward! cries our guide; and higher 

Mounts up the stony forest-way. 

At last the encircling trees retire ; 

Look ! through the showery twilight grey 

What pointed roofs are these advance? — 

A palace of the Kings of France? 

Approach, for what we seek is here 1 

Alight, and sparely sup, and wait 

For rest in this outbuilding near; 

Then cross the sward and reach that gate; 

Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come 

To the Carthusians' world-famed home. 

The silent courts, where night and day 

Into their stone-carved basins cold 

The splashing icy fountains play — 

The humid corridors behold, 

Where, ghostlike in the deepening night, 

Cowl'd forms brush by in gleaming white I 

The chapel, where no organ's peal 
Invests the stern and naked prayer! — 
With penitential cries they kneel 
And wrestle; rising then, with bare 
And white uplifted faces stand. 
Passing the Host from hand to hand; 

Each takes, and then his visage wan 
Is buried in his cowl once more. 



THE GRAND CHARTREUSE. 337 

The cells! — the suffering Son of Man 
Upon the wall — the knee-worn floor — 
And where they sleep, that wooden bed, 
Which shall their coffin be, when dead! 

The library, where tract and tome 

Not to feed priestly pride are there, 

To hymn the conquering march of Rome, 

Nor yet to amuse, as ours are ! 

They paint of souls the inner strife, 

Their drops of blood, their death *in life. 

The garden, overgrown — yet mild, 
See, fragrant herbs are flowering there I 
Strong children of the Alpine wild 
Whose culture is the brethren's care; 
Of human tasks their only one. 
And cheerful works beneath the sun. 

Those halls, too, destined to contain 
Each its own pilgrim-host of old, 
From England, Germany, or Spain — 
All are before me ! I behold 
The House, the Brotherhood austere I — 
And what am I, that I am here? 

For rigorous teachers seized my youth, 
And purged its faith, and trimm'd its fire, 
Shew'd me the high, white star of Truth, 
There bade me gaze, and there aspire. 
Even now their whispers pierce the gloom: 
What dost thou m-this living tomb? 

Forgive me, masters of the mind ! 
At whose behest I long ago 
So much unlearnt, so much resign'd— 
I come not here to be your foe! 
z 



338 STANZAS FROM 

I seek .these anchorites, not in ruth, 
To curse and to deny your truth ; 

Not as their friend, or child, I speak! 
But as, on some far northern strand, 
Thinking of his own Gods, a Greek 
In pity and mournful awe might stand 
Before some fallen Runic stone — 
For both were faiths, and both are gone. 

Wandering between two worlds, one dead, 
The other powerless to be born. 
With nowhere yet to rest my head, 
Like these, on earth I wait forlorn. 
Their faith, my tears, the world deride — 
I come to shed them at their side. 

Oh, hide me in your gloom profound, 

Ye solemn seats of holy pain ! 

Take me, cowl'd forms, and fence me round, 

Till I possess my soul again ; 

Till free my thoughts before me roll. 

Not chafed by hourly false control! 

For the world cries your faith is now 

But a dead time's exploded dream; 

My melancholy, sciolists say, 

Is a pass'd mode, an outworn theme. — 

As if the world had ever had 

A faith, or sciolists been sad ! 

Ah, if it be pass'd, take away. 
At least, the restlessness, the pain! 
Be man henceforth no more a prey 
To these out-dated stings again! 
The nobleness of grief is gone — 
Ah, leave us not the fret alone! 



THE GRAND CHARTREUSE. 339 

But — if you cannot give us ease — 
Last of the race of them who grieve 
Here leave us to die out with these 
Last of the people who believe ! 
Silent, while years engrave the brow; 
Silent — the best are silent now. 

Achilles ponders in his tent, 
The kings of modern thought are dumb; 
Silent they are, though not content, 
And wait to see the future come. 
They have the grief men had of yore. 
But they contend and cry no more. 

Our fathers water'd with their tears 

H 

This sea of time whereon we sail ; 
Their voices were in all men's ears 
Who pass'd within their puissant hail. 
Still the same ocean ro.nd us raves, 
But we stand mute, and watch the waves. 

For what avail'd it, all the noise 

And outcry of the former men? — 

Say, have their sons achieved more joys, 

Say, is life lighter now than then ? 

The sufferers died, they left their pain — ■ 

The pangs which tortured them remain. 

What helps it now, that Byron bore, • 

With haughty scorn which mock'd the smart, 
Through Europe to the ^tolian shore 
The pageant of his bleeding heart? 
That thousands counted every groan. 
And Europe made his woe her own? 

What boots it, Shelley ! that the breeze 
Carried thy lovely wail away, 



340 STANZAS FROM 

Musical through Italian trees 

Which fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay? 

Inheritors of thy distress 

Have restless hearts one throb the less? 

Or are we easier, to have read, 
O Obcrmann ! the sad, stern page, 
Which tells us how thou hidd'st thy head 
From the fierce tempest of thine age 
In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau, 
Or chalets near the Alpine snow? 

Ye slumber in your silent grave ! — 
The world, which for an idle day 
Grace to your mood of sadness gave, 
Long since hath flung her weeds away. 
The eternal trifler breaks your spell ; 
But we — we learnt your lore too well ! 

Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age, 

More fortunate,- alas ! than we. 

Which without hardness will be sage, 

And gay without frivolity. 

Sons of the world, oh, speed those years; 

But, while we wait, allow our tears ! 

Allow them ! We admire with awe 
The exulting thunder of your race; 
You give the universe your law. 
You triumph over time and space! 
Your pride of life, your tireless powers, 
We praise them, but they are not ours. 

We are like children rear'd in shade 
Beneath some old-world abbey wall, 
Forgotten in a forest-glade, 
And secret from the eyes of all 



THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE. 341 

Deep, deep the greenwood round them waves, 
Their abbey, and its close of graves ! 

But, where the road runs near the streaTn, 
Oft through the trees they catch a glance 
Of passing troops in the sun's beam-^ 
Pennon, and plume, and flashing lance I 
Forth to the world those soldiers fare, 
To life, to cities, and to war! 

And through ihe woods, another way, 
Faint bugle-notes from far are borne, 
Where hunters gather, staghounds bay, 
Round some old forest-lodge at morn. 
Gay dames are there, in sylvan green; 
Laughter and cries— those notes between! 

The banners flashing through the trees 
Make their blood dance and chain their eyes; 
That bugle-music on the breeze 
Arrests them with a charm'd surprise. 
Banner by turns and bugle woo : 
Ye shy recluses, follow too ! 

O children, what do ye reply? — 
'Action and pleasure, will ye roam 
Through these secluded dells to cry 
And call us? — but too late ye cornel 
Too late for us your call ye blow, 
Whose bent was taken long ago. 

'Long since we pace this shadow'd nave; 
We watch those yellow tapers shine, 
Emblems of hope over the grave, 
In the high altar's depth divine. 
The organ carries to our ear 
Its accents of another sphere. 



343 STANZAS IN MEMORY OF 

'Fenced early in this cloistral round 

Of reverie, of shade, of prayer, 

How should we grow in other ground? 

How can we flower in foreign air ? 

— Pass, banners, pass, and bugles, cease; 

And leave our desert to its peace 1' 



STANZAS 

IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF 

OBERMANN?^ 

November, 1849. 

In front the awful Alpine track 
Crawls up its rocky stair; 
The autumn storm-winds drive the rack, 
Close o'er it, in the air. 

Behind are the abandon'd ^aths" 
Mute in their meadows lone; • 
The leaves are on the valley- paths, 
The mists are on the Rhone — 

The white mists rolling like a sea! 
I hear the torrents roar. 
— Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee; 
I feel thee near once more ! 

I turn thy leaves 1 I feel their breath 
Once more upon me roll; 
That air of languor, cold, and death, 
Which brooded o'er thy soul. 



THE AUTHOR OF OBERMANN. 343 

Fly hence, poor wretch, whoe'er thou art, 
Condemn'd to cast about. 
All shipwreck in thy own weak heart, 
For comfort from without ! 

A fever in these pages burns 
Beneath the calm they feign; 
A wounded human spirit turns, 
Here, on its bed of pain. 

Yes, though the virgin mountain-air 
Fresh through these pages blows ; 
Though to these leaves the glaciers spare 
The soul of their mute snows ; 

Though here a mountain-murmur swells 

Of many a dark-bough'd pine; 

Though, as you read, you hear the bells 

Of the high-pasturing kine — 

Yet, through the hum of torrent lone, 

And brooding mountain-bee. 

There sobs 1 know not what ground-tone 

Of human agony. 

Is it for this, because the sound 
Is fraught too deep with pain, 
That, Obermann ! the world around 
So Hide loves thy strain? 

Some secrets may the poet tell, 
For the world loves new ways; 
To tell too deep ones is not well — 
It knows not what he says. 

Yet, of the spirits who have reign'd 
In this our troubled day, 
I know but two, who have attain'd, 
Save thee, to see their way. 



344 STANZAS IN MEMORY OF 

By England's lakes, in grey old age, 
His quiet home one keeps ; 
And one, the strong much-toiling sage. 
In German Weimar sleeps. 

But Wordsworth's eyes avert their ken 
From half of human fate ; 
And Goethe's course few sons of men 
May think to emulate. 

For he pursued a lonely road, 
His eyes on Nature's plan ; 
Neither made man too much a God, 
Nor God too much a man. 

Strong was he, with a spirit free 
From mists, and sane, and clear; 
Clearer, how much ! than ours — yet we 
Have a worse course to steer. 

For though his manhood bore the blast 
Of- a tremendous time. 
Yet in a tranquil world was pass'd 
His tenderer youthful prime. 

But we, brought forth and rear'd in hours 
Of change, alarm, surprise — 
What shelter to grow ripe is ours? 
What leisure to grow wise ? 

Like children bathing on the shore, 
Buried a wave beneath. 
The second wave succeeds, before 
We have had time to breathe. 

Too fast we live, too much arc tried, 
Too harass'd, to attain 
Wordsworth's sweet calm, or Goethe's wide 
And luminous view to gain. 



THE AUTHOR OF OBERMANN. 345 

And then we turn, thou sadder sage, 
To thee ! we feel thy .spell ! 
— The hopeless tangle of our age, 
Thou too hast scann'd it well ! 

Immoveable thou sittest, still 
As death, composed to bear ! 
Thy head is clear, thy feeling chill, 
And icy thy despair. 

Yes, as the son of Thetis said, 
I hear thee saying now: 
Greater by far than thou are dead; 
Strive not ! die also thou ! 

Ah ! two desires toss about 

The poet's feverish blood; 

One drives him to the world without. 

And one to solitude. 

The glow, he cries, the thrill of life, 
Where, zvhere do these abound P— 
Not in the world, not in the strife 
Of men, shall they be found. 

He who hath watch'd, not shared, the strife, 
Knows how the day hath gone. 
He only lives with the world's life, 
Who hath renounced his own. 

To thee we come, then ! Clouds are roll'd 
Where thou, O seer! art set; 
Thy realm of thought is drear and cold — 
The world is colder yet ! 

And thou hast pleasures, too, to share 
With those who come to thee — 
Balms floating on thy mountain-air, 
And healing sights to see. 



346 STANZAS IN MEMORY OF 

How often, where the slopes are green 
On Jaman, hast thou sate 
By some high chalet-door, and seen 
The summer- day grow late; 

And darkness steal o'er the wet grass 
With* the pale crocus starr'd, 
And reach that glimmering sheet of glass 
Beneath the piny sward, 

Lake Leman's waters, far below I 
And watch'd the rosy light 
Fade from the distant peaks of snow; 
And on the air of night 

Heard accents of the eternal tongue 
Through the pine branches play — 
Listen'd, and felt thyself grow young! 
Listen'd, and wept Away ! 

Away the dreams that but deceive! 
And thou, sad guide, adieu ! 
I go, fate drives me; but 1 leave 
Half of my life with you. 

We, in some unknown Power's employ, 
Move on a rigorous line; 
Can neither, when we will, enjoy, 
Nor, when we will, resign. 

I in the world must live; — but thou, 
Thou melancholy shade ! 
Wilt not, if thou can'st see me now, 
Condemn me, nor upbraid. 

For thou art gone away from earth, 
And place with those dost claim, 
The Children of the Second Birth, 
Whom the world could not tame ; 



THE AUTHOR OF OBERMANN. 347 

And with that small, transfigured band, 
Whom many a different way 
Conducted to their common land, 
Thou learn'st to think as they. 

Christian and pagan, king and slave, 
Soldier and anchorite, 
Distinctions we esteem so grave. 
Are nothing in their sight. 

They do not ask, who pined unseen, 
Who was on action hurl'd, 
Whose one bond is, that all have been 
Unspotted by the world. 

There without anger thou wilt see 
Him who obeys thy spell 
No more, so he but rest, like thee, 
Unsoil'd ; — and so, farewell ! 

Farewell ! — Whether thou now liest near 
That much-loved inland sea. 
The ripples of whose blue waves cheer 
Vevey and Meillerie; 

And in that gracious region bland, 
Where with clear-rustling wave 
The scented pines of Switzerland 
Siand dark round thy green grave, 

Between the dusty vineyard-walls 
Issuing on that green place 
The early peasant still recalls 
The pensive stranger's face. 

And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date 
Ere he plods on again ; — 
Or whether, by maligner fate. 
Among the swarms of men. 



348 OBERMANN ONCE MORE. 

Where between granite terraces 
The blue Seine rolls her wave, 
The Capital of Pleasure sees 
Thy hardly-heard-of grave ;— 

Farewell! Under the sky we part, 
In this stern Alpine dell. 
O unstrung will ! O broken heart 1 
A last, a last farewell! 



OBERMANN ONCE MORE. 

(composed many years after the preceding.) 

Savez-vous quelque hien qui console du regret d'u/i monde? 

Obermann. 

Glion? Ah, twenty years, it cuts'^^ 

All meaning from a name ! 

White houses prank where once were huts; 

Glion, but not the same ! 

And yet I know not! All unchanged 
The turf, the pines, the sky! 
The hills in their old order ranged ; 
The lake, with Chillon by! 

And, 'neath those chestnut-trees, where stiff 

And stony mounts the way, 

The crackling husk-heaps burn, as if 

I left them yesterday ! 

Across the valley, on that slope, 
The huts of Avant shine ! 
Its pines, under their branches, ope 
Ways for the pasturing kine. 



OBERMANN ONCE MORE. 349 

Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare, 
Sweet heaps of fresh-cut grass, 
Invite to rest the traveller there 
Before he climb the pass — 

The gentian-flower'd pass, its crown ^' 
With yellow spires aflame ; 
Whence drops, the path to AUiere down, 
And walls were Byron came,^* 

By their green river, who doth change 
His birth-name just below; 
Orchard, and croft, and full-stored grange 
Nursed by his pastoral flow. 

But stop I — to fetch back thoughts that stray 

Beyond this gracious bound, 

The cone of Jaman, pale and grey, 

See, in the blue profound ! 

Ah, Jaman I delicately tall 

Above his sun-warm' d firs — 

What thoughts to me his rocks recall. 

What memories he stirs ! 

And who but thou must be, in truth, 

Obermann ! with me here ? 

Thou master of my wandering youth, 

But left this many a year I 

Yes, I forget the world's work wrought, 

Its warfare waged with pain ! 

An eremite with thee, in thought 

Once more I slip my chain, 

And to thy mountain-chalet come. 
And He beside its door. 
And hear the wild bee's Alpine hum. 
And thy sad, tranquil lore! 



3SO OBERMANN ONCE MORE. 

Again I feel the words inspire 
Their mournful calm ; serene, 
Yet tinged with infinite desire 
For all that might have been — 

The harmony from which man swerved 
Made his life's rule once more 1 
The universal order served, 
Earth happier than before 1 

— While thus I mused, night gently ran 
Down over hill and wood. 
Then, still and sudden, Obermann 
On the grass near me stood. 

Those pensive features well I knew, 
On my mind, years before, 
Imaged so oft, imaged so true! 
— A shepherd's garb he wore; 

A mountain-flower was in his hand, 

A book was in his breast. 

Bent on my face, with gaze which scann'd 

INIy soul, his eyes did rest. 

* And is it thou,' , he cried, ' so long 
Held by the world which we 
Loved not, who turnest from the throng 
Back to thy youth and me.? 

'And from thy world, with heart opprest, 
Choosest thou now to turn? — 
Ah me! we anchorites read things best, 
Clearest their course discern ! 

' Thou fledst me when the ungenial earth, 
Man's work-place, lay in gloom. 
Return'st thou in her hour of birth, 
Of 'hopes and hearts in bloom ? 



OBERMANN ONCE MORE. 351 

'Perceiv'st thou not the change of day? — 
Ah ! Carry back thy ken, 
What, some two thousand years! Survey 
The world as it was then! 

'Like ours it look'd in outward air. 
Its head was clear and true, 
Sumptuous its clothing, rich its fare, 
No pause its action knew ; 

' Stout was its arm, each thew and bone 
Seem'd puissant and alive — 
But, ah ! its heart, its heart was stone, 
And so it could not thrive! 

*Qn that hard Pagan world disgust 
And secret loathing fell. 
Deep weariness and sated lust 
Made human life a hell. 

'In his cool hall, with haggard eyes, 
The Roman noble lay ; 
He drove abroad, in furious guise. 
Along the Appian way. 

' He made a feast, drank fierce and fast. 
And crown'd his hair with flowers — 
No easier nor no quicker pass'd 
The impracticable hours. 

'The brooding East with awe beheld 
Her impious younger v/orld. 
The Roman tempest swell'd and swell'd. 
And on her head was hurl'd. 

* The East bow'd low before the blast 
In patient, deep disdain ; 
She let the legions thunder past, 
And plunged in thought again. 



352 OBERMANN ONCE MORE. 

' So well she mused, a morning broke 
Across her spirit grey. 
A conquering, new-born joy awoke. 
And fiU'd her life with day, 

' " Poor world," she cried, " so deep accurst. 
That runn'st from pole to pole 
To seek a draught to slake thy thirst — 
Go, seek it in thy soul ! " 

' She heard it, the victorious West, 

In crown and sword array' d ! 

She felt the void which mined her breast. 

She shiver'd and obey'd. 

'She veil'd her eagles, snapp'd her sword, 
And laid her sceptre down; 
Her stately purple she abhorr'd, 
And her imperial crown. 

' She broke her flutes, she stopp'd her sports. 
Her artists could not please. 
She tore her books, she shut her courts, 
She fled her palaces. 

'Lust of the eye and pride of life 
She left it all behind, 
And hurried, torn with inward strife. 
The wilderness to find. 

' Tears wash'd the trouble from her face ! 
She changed into a child ! 
'Mid weeds and wrecks she stood — a place 
Of ruin — but she smiled ! 

'Oh, had I lived in that great day, 
How had its glory new 
FiU'd earth and lieaven, and caught away 
My ravish'd spirit too I 



OBERMANN ONCE MORE, 353 

*No thoughts that to the world belon*' 
Had stood against the wave 
Of love which set so deep and strong 
From Christ's then open grave. 

• No cloister-floor of humid stone 
Had been too cold for me; 
For me no 'Eastern desert lone 
Had been too far to flee. 

*No lonely life had pass'd too slow, 
When I could hourly scan 
Upon his Cross, with head sunk low, 
That nail'd, thorn-crowned Man ! 

'Could see the Mother with the Child 
Whose tender winning arts 
Have to his little arms beguiled 
So many wounded hearts 1 

'And centuries came and ran their course, 
And unspent all that time 
Still, still went forth that Child's dear force, 
And still was at its prime. 

*Ay, ages long endured his span 

Of life — 'tis true received — 

That gracious Child, that thorn-crown'd Man! 

— He lived while we believed. 

'While we believed, on earth he went, 
And open stood his grave. 
Men call'd from chamber, church, and tent, 
And Christ was by to save. 

' Now he is dead ! Far hence he lies 
In the lorn Syrian town; 
And on his grave, with shining eye3> 
The Syrian stars look down. 
▲ a 



354 OBERMANN ONCE MORE. 

*In vain men still, with hoping new. 
Regard his death-place dumb, 
And say the stone is not yet to. 
And wait for words to come. 

*Ah, from that silent sacred land, 
Of sun, and arid stone. 
And crumbling wall, and sultry sand, 
Comes now one word alone 1 

•From David's lips that word did roll, 
'Tis true and living yet: 
No man can save his bro/her's soul. 
Nor pay his brother s debt. 

'Alone, self-poised, henceforward man 
Must labour! — must resign 
His all too human creeds, and scan 
Simply the way divine 1 

'But slow that tide of common thought, 
Which bathed our Hfe, retired. 
Slow, slow the old world wore to nought, 
And pulse by pulse expired. 

* Its frame yet stood without a breach 
When blood and warmth were fled; 
And still it spake its wonted speech — 
But every word was dead. 

'And oh, we cried, that on this corse 
Might fall a freshening storm! 
Rive its dry bones, and with new force 
A new-sprung world inform! 

' — Down came the storm 1 O'er France it passli 

In sheets of scathing fire. 

All Europe felt that fiery blast, 

A.nd shook as it rush'd by her. 



OBERMANN ONCE MORE. 355 

'Down came the storm! In ruins fell 
The worn-out world we knew. 
It pass'd, that elemental swell — 
Again appear'd the blue; 

'The sun shone in the new-wash'd sky. 
— And what from heaven saw he ? 
Blocks of the past, like icebergs high, 
Float on a rolling sea! 

* Upon them plies the race of man 
All it before endeavour'd; 
" Ye live," I cried, " ye work and plan. 
And know not ye are sever'd 1 

' " Poor fragments of a broken world 
Whereon men pitch their tent! 
Why were ye too to death not hurl'd 
When your world's day was spent? 

* " That glow of central fire is done 
Which with its fusing flame 
Knit all your parts, and kept you one; — - 
But ye, ye are the same ! 

* " The past, its mask of union on. 
Had ceased to live and thrive. 
The past, its mask of union gone, 
Say, is it more alive? 

*"Your creeds are dead, your rites are dead, 
Your social order too ! 
Where tarries he, the Power who said: 
See, I make all things new? 

'"The millions suffer still, and grieve. 
And what can helpers heal 
With old-world cures men half believe 
For woes they wholly feel? 
A a a 



356 OBERMANN ONCE MORE. 

' " And yet men have such need of joy 1 
But joy whose grounds are true; 
And joy that should all hearts employ 
As when the past was new. 

'"Ah, not the emotion of that past. 
Its common hope, were vain ! 
Some new such hope must dawn at last. 
Or man must toss in pain. 

' " But now the old is out of date, 
The new is not yet born. 
And who can be alone elate, 
While the world lies forlorn?** 

' Then to the wilderness I fled. — 
There among Alpine snows 
And pastoral huts I hid my head. 
And sought and found repose. 

*It was not yet the appointed hour. 
Sad, patient, and resign' d, 
I watch'd the crocus fade and flower, 
I felt the sun and wind. 

' The day I lived in was not mine ; 
Man gets no second day. 
In dreams I saw the future shine — 
But ah! I could not stay! 

'Action I had not, followers, fame. 
I pass'd obscure, alone. 
The after-world forgets my name, 
Nor do I wish it known. 

'Composed to bear, I lived and died, 
And knew my life was vain. 
With fate I murmur not, nor chide. 
At Sevres by the Seine 



OBERMANN ONCE MORE. 357 

'(If Paris that brief flight allow) 
My humble tomb explore ! 
It bears : Eternity, be thou 
My refuge ! and no more. 

' But thou, whom fellowship of mood 
Did make from haunts of strife 
Come to my mountain-solitude, 
And learn my frustrate life; 

* O thou, who, ere thy flying span 
Was past of cheerful youth, 
Didst find the solitary man 
And love his cheerless truth — 

'Despair not thou as I despair'd. 
Nor be cold gloom thy prison ! 
Forward the gracious hours have fared, 
And see ! the sun is risen ! 

' He breaks the winter of the past ; 
A green, new earth appears. 
Millions, whose life in ice lay fast, 
Have thoughts, and smiles, and tears. 

'What though there still need effort, strife? 
Though much be still unwon ? 
Yet warm it mounts, the hour of life 
Death's frozen hour is done ! 

*The world's great order dawns in sheen 
After long darkness rude, 
Divinelier imaged, clearer seen, 
With happier zeal pursued. 

' With hope extinct and brow composed 
I mark'd the present die; 
Its term of life was nearly closed, 
Yet it had more than I. 



358 OBERMANN ONCE MORE. 

' But thou, though to the world's new hour 
Thou come with aspect marr'd, 
Shorn of the joy, the bloom, the power, 
Which best befits its bard — 

' Though more than half thy years be past, 
And spent thy youthful prime ; 
Though, round thy firmer manhood cast, 
Hang weeds of our sad time 

'Whereof thy youth felt all the spell, 

And traversed all the shade — 

Though late, though dimm'd, though weak, yet tell 

Hope to a world new-made ! 

* Help it to fill that deep desire, 
The want which crazed our brain, 
Consumed our soul with thirst like fire. 
Immedicable pain; 

'Which to the wilderness drove out 
Our life, to Alpine snow, 
And palsied all our word with doubt, 
And all our work with woe — 

* What still of strength is left, employ, 
This end to help attain: 

One commoti wave of thought and joy 
Lifting mankind again ! ' 

— The vision ended. I awoke 

As out of sleep, and no 

Voice moved;— only the torrent broke 

The silence, far below. 

Soft darkness on the turf did lie; 

Solemn, o'er hut and wood, 

In the yet star-sown nightly sky, 

The peak of Jaman stood. 



OBERMANN ONCE MORE. 359 

Still in my soul the voice I heard 

Of Obermann ! away 

I turned ; by some vague impulse stirr'd, 
Along the rocks of Naye 

Past Sonchaud's piny flanks I gaze 
And the blanch'd summit bare 
Of Malatrait, to where in haze 
The Valais opens fair, 

And the domed Velan, with his snows, 
Behind the upcrowding hills, 
Doth all the heavenly opening close 
Which the Rhone's murmur fills — 

And glorious there, without a sound. 
Across the glimmering lake. 
High in the Valais-depth profound, 
I saw the morning break. 



NOTES. 



NOTE I, PAGE 2. 

Saiv The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen. 

The name Europe (Et-puTr?;, the ivide prospect) probably 
describes the appearance of the European coast to the 
Greeks on the coast of Asia Minor opposite. The name 
Asia, again, comes, it has been thought, from the muddy 
fens of the rivers of Asia Minor, such as. the Cayster or 
Mseander, which struck the imagination of the Greeks 
living near them. 

NOTE 2, PAGE 8. 

Mycerinus. 

* After Chephren, Mycerinus, son of Cheops, reigned 
over Egypt. He abhorred his father's courses, and judged 
his subjects more justly than any of their kings had done. — 
To him there came an oracle from the city of Buto, to the 
effect that he was to live but six years longer, and to die 
in the seventh year from that time.' — Herodotus. 

NOTE 3, PAGE 37. 

Stagirius. 

Stagirius was a young monk to whom St. Chrysostom 
addressed three books, and of whom those books give an 
account. They will be found in the first volume of the 
Benedictine edition of St. Chrysostom's works. 

NOTE 4, PAGE 5 1. 

That ^.uayside inn aue left to-day. 

Those who have been long familiar with the English 
Lake-Country will find no difficulty in recalling, from the 



363 NOTES. 

description in the text, the roadside inn at Wythburn 
on the descent from Dunmail Raise towards Keswick ; 
its sedentary landlord of thirty years ago, and the pas- 
sage over the Wythburn Fells to Watendlath. 

NOTE 5, PAGE 59. 
Sohrab and Rustum. 

The story of Sohrab and Rustum is told in Sir John 
Malcolm's History of Persia, as follows : — 

'The young Sohrab was the fruit of one of Rustum's 
early amours. He had left his mother, and sought fame 
under the banners of Afrasiab, whose armies he commanded, 
and soon obtained a renown beyond that of all contem- 
poraiy heroes but his father. He had carried death and 
dismay into the ranks of the Persians, and had terrified the 
boldest warriors of that country, before Rustum en- 
countered him, which at last that hero resolved to do, 
under a feigned name. They met three times. The first 
time they parted by mutual consent, though Sohrab had the 
advantage ; the second, the youth obtained a victory, but 
granted life to his unknown father ; the third was fatal to 
Sohrab, who, when writhing in the pangs of death, warned 
his conqueror to shun the vengeance that is inspired by 
parental woes, and bade him dread the rage of the mighty 
Rustum, who must soon learn that he had slain his son 
Sohrab. These words, we are told, were as death to the 
aged hero ; and when he recovered from a trance, he called 
in despair for proofs of what Sohrab had said. The 
afflicted and dying youth tore open his mail, and showed his 
father a seal which his mother had placed on his arm when 
she discovered to him tlie secret of his birth, and bade him 
seek his father. The sight of his own signet rendered 
Rustum quite frantic; he cursed himself, attempting to 
put an end to his existence, and was only prevented by 
the efforts of his expiring son. Alter Sohrab's death, he 
burnt his tents and all his goods, and carried the corpse 
to Scistan, where it was interred ; the army of Turan was, 
agreeably to the last request of Sohrab, permitted to cross 



NOTES. 363 

■the Oxus unmolested. To reconcile us to the improba- 
bility of this tale, we are informed that Rustum could 
have no idea his son was in existence. The mother of 
Sohrab had written to him her child was a daughter, 
fearing to lose her darling infant if she revealed the truth ; 
and Rustum, as before stated, fought under a feigned name, 
an usage not uncommon in the chivalrous combats of those 
days.' 

NOTE 6, PAGE 94. 
Balder Dead. 

* Balder the Good having been tormented with terrible 
dreams, indicating that his life was in great peril, commu- 
nicated them to the assembled ^sir, who resolved to 
conjure all things to avert from him the threatened danger. 
Then Frigga exacted an oath from fire and water, from 
iron, and all other metals, as well as from stones, earths, 
diseases, beasts, birds, poisons, and creeping things, that 
none of them would do any harm to Balder. When this 
was done, it became a favourite pastime of the ^sir, at 
their meetings, to get Balder to stand up and serve them 
as a mark, some hurling daris at him, some stones, while 
others hewed at him with their'swords and battle-axes, for 
do they what they would, none of them could harm him, and 
this was regarded by all as a great honour shown to Balder. 
But when Loki beheld the scene he was sorely vexed that 
Balder was not hurt. Assuming, therefore, the shape of a 
woman, he went to Fensalir, the mansion of Frigga. That 
goddess, when she saw the pretended woman, inquired of 
her if she knew what the jEsir were doing at their meet- 
ings. She replied, that they were throwing darts and 
stones at Balder without being able to hurt him. 

' " Ay," said Frigga, " neither metal nor wood can hurt 
Balder, for 1 have exacted an oath from all of them." 

' " What ! " exclaimed the woman, " have all things sworn 
to spare Balder ? " 

•"All things," replied Frigga, "except one little shrub 
that grows on the eastern side of Valhalla, and is called 



364 NOTES. 

Mistletoe, and which I thought too young and feeble to 
crave an oath from." 

* As soon as Loki heard this he went away, and, resum- 
ing his natural shape, cut off the mistletoe, and repaired to 
the place where the gods were assembled. There he found 
Hodur standing apart, without partaking of the sports, on 
account of 'his blindness, and going up to him said, " Why 
dost thou not also throw something at Balder ? " 

' " Because I am blind," answered Hodur, " and see not 
where Balder is, and have, moreover, nothing to throw with." 

* " Come, then," said Loki, " do like the rest, and show 
honour to Balder by throwing this twig at him, and I will 
direct thy arm toward the place where he stands." 

* Hodur then took the mistletoe, and, under the guidance 
of Loki, darted it at Balder, who, pierced through and 
through, fell down lifeless.' — Edda. 

NOTE 7, PAGE 131. 
Tristram and heult. 

' In the court of his uncle King Marc, the king of Corn- 
wall, who at this time resided at the castle of Tyntagel, 
Tristram became expert in all knightly exercises. — The 
king of Ireland, at Tristram's solicitations, promised to 
bestow his daughter Iseult in marriage on King Marc. 
The mother of Iseult gave to her daughter's confidante 
a philtre, or love-potion, to be administered on the night 
of her nuptials. Of this beverage Tristram and Iseult, on 
their voyage to Cornwall, unfortunately partook. Its 
influence, during the remainder of their lives, vk ^ulatcd the 
affections and destiny of the lovers. — 

'After the arrival of Tristram and Iseult in Cornwall, 
and the nuptials of the latter with King Marc, a great part 
of the romance is occupied with their contrivances to pro- 
cure secret interviews. — Tristram, being forced to leave 
Cornwall on account of the displeasure of his uncle, 
repaired to Brittany, where lived Iseult with the White 
Hands.— He married her— more out of gratitude than 



NOTES. 365 

love.— Afterwards he proceeded to the dominions of 
Arthur, which became the theatre of unnumbered exploits. 
* Tristram, subsequent to these events, returned to 
Brittany, and to his long-neglected wife. There, being 
wounded and sick, he was soon reduced to the lowest ebb. 
In this situation, he dispatched a confidant to the queen of 
Cornwall, to try if he could induce her to accompany him 
to Brittany, &c.' Dunlop's History of Fiction. 

NOTE 8, PAGE 167. 
That son of Italy ^'ho tried to blow. 
Giacopone di Todi. 

NOTE 9, PAGE 172. 
Recalls the obscure opposer he oiitqveigh^ d. 
Gilbert de la Porree, at the Council of Rheims, in 1148. 

NOTE 10, PAGE 173. 
Of that unpitying Phrygian sect luhicb cried. 
The IMontanists. 

NOTE II, PAGE 174. 
Monica. 
See St. Augustine's Confessions, book ix, chapter ir. 
NOTE 12, PAGE 175. 
My Marguerite smiles upon the strand. 
See, among ' Early Poems,' the poem called A Memory- 
Picture, p. 23. 

NOTE 13, PAGE 199. 
The Hunter of the Tanagrsean Field. 
Orion, the Wild Huntsman of Greek legend, and in this 
capacity appearing in both earth and sky. 

NOTE 14, PAGE 200. 
O^er the sun-redden^ d ^western straits, 
Erytheia, the legendary region around the Pillars of 
Hercules, probably took its name from the redness of the 
West under which the Greeks saw it. 



366 NOTES. 

NOTE 15, PAGK 2 2 2. 
Of the sun- loving gentian, in the heat. 
The gentiana lutea, 

NOTE 16, PAGE 246. 
Te Sun-born Virgins ! on the road of truth. 
See the Fragments of Parmenides : 

,,,,,. Kovpni 8 686v rj-yefiovevou, 
ffKlabes Kovpai, Trpokinovaai dajixara vvktos, 
tls (fidos • • . 

NOTE 17, PAGE 291. 
The Scholar-Gipsy. 

* There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, 
who was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there ; 
and at last to join himself to a company of vagabond gipsies. 
Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating sub- 
tilty of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love 
and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery. 
After he had been a pretty while exercised in the trade, 
there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars, who had 
formerly been of his acquaintance. They quickly spied 
out their old friend among the gipsies ; and he gave them 
an account of the necessity which drove him to that kind 
of life, and told them that the people he went with were 
not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they 
had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could 
do wonders by the power of imagination, their fancy 
binding that of others: that himself had learned much 
of their art, and when he had compassed the whole sccr t, 
he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give the 
world an account of what he had learned.' — Glanvil's 
Vanity of Dogmatizing, 1 6 6 1 . 

NOTE 18, PAGE 299. 
Thyrsis, 
Throughout this poem there is reference to the pre- 
ceding piece, The Scholar-Gipsy. 



NOTES. 367 

NOTE 19, PAGE 305, 

Young Daphnis iv'ttb his silver voice doth sing. 

Daphnis, the ideal Sicilian shepherd of Greek pastoral 
poetry, was said to have followed into Phrygia his mistress 
Piplea, who had been carried off by robbers, and to have 
found her in the power of the king of Phrygia, Lityerses. 
Lityerses used to make strangers try a contest with him in 
reaping corn, and to put them to death if he overcame them. 
Hercules arrived in time to save Daphnis, took upon him- 
self the reaping-contest with Lityerses, overcame him, and 
slew him. The Lityerses-song connected with this tradi- 
tion was, like the Linus-song, one of the early plaintive 
strains of Greek popular poetry, and used to be sung by 
corn-reapers. Other traditions represented Daphnis as 
beloved by a nymph who exacted from him an oath to love 
no one else. He fell in love with a princess, and was 
struck blind by the jealous nymph. Mercury, who was 
his father, raised him to Heaven, and made a fountain 
spring up in the place from which he ascended. At this 
fountain the Sicilians offered yearly sacrifices. — See Ser- 
vius, Comment, in Virgil. Bucol., v. 20, and viii. 68, 

NOTE 20, PAGE 312. 

Ah, 'where is he, qvho should have come. 

The author's brother, William Delafield Arnold, Di- 
rector of Public Instruction in the Punjab, and author 
of Oakfield, or Fello'wship in the East, died at Gibraltar on 
his way home from India, April the 9th, 1859. 

NOTE 21, PAGE 313. 
So moonlit, sanxi me once of yore. 
See the poem, A Summer Night, p. 278. 

NOTE 22, PAGE 313. 
My brother ! and thine early lot. 
See Note 20, 



368 NOTES. 

NOTE 23, PAGE 317. 
/ saiu the meeting of iiuo 
Gifted 'women. 
Charlotte Bronte and Harriet Martineau. 

NOTE 24, PAGE 320. 

Whose too bold dying song. 

See the last lines written by Emily Bronte in Poems by 
Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. 

NOTE 25, PAGE 334. 
Goethe, too, had been there. 
See Harzreise im IVinter, in Goethe's Gedichte. 
NOTE 26, PAGE 342. 

The author of Obermann, Etienne Pivert de Senancour, 
has little celebrity in France, his own country ; and out of 
France he is almost unknown. But the profound inward- 
ness, the austere sincerity, of his principal work, Obermann, 
the delicate feeling for nature which it exhibits, and the 
melancholy eloquence of many passages of it, have attracted 
and charmed some of the most remarkable spirits of this 
century, such as George Sand and Sainte-Beuve, and will 
probably always find a certain number of spirits whom 
they touch and interest. 

Senancour was born in 1770. He was educated for the 
priesthood, and passed some time in the Seminary of St. 
Sulpice ; broke away from the Seminary and from France 
itself, and passed some years in Switzerland, where he 
married ; returned to France in middle life, and followed 
thenceforward the career of a man of letters, but with 
hardly any fame or success. He died an old man in 1846, 
desiring that on his grave might be placed these words 
only : Etemite, deviens mon asile I 

The influence of Rousseau, and certain affinities with 
more famous and fortunate authors of his own day, — 
Chateaubriand and Madame de Stael, — are cvciywhere 
visible in Senancour. But though, like these eminent 



NOTES. 369 

personages, he may be called a sentimental writer, and 
though Obermann, a collection of letters from Switzerland 
treating almost entirely of nature and of the human soul, 
may be called a work of sentiment, Senancour has a gravity 
and severity which distinguish him from all other writers 
of the sentimental school. The world is with him in his 
solitude far less than it is with them ; of all writers he is 
the most perfectly isolated and the least attitudinising. 
His chief work, too, has a value and power of its own, 
apart from these merits of its author. The stir of all the 
main forces, by which modern life is and has been impelled, 
lives in the letters oi Obermann', the dissolving agencies of 
the eighteenth century, the fiery storm of the French 
Revolution, the first faint promise and dawn of that new 
world which our own time is but now fully bringing to 
light, — all these are to be felt, almost to be touched, there. 
To me, indeed, it will always seem that the impressiveness 
of this production can hardly be rated too high. 

Besides Obermann there is one other of Senancour's 
works which, for those spirits who feel his attraction, is 
very interesting ; its title is, Libres Meditations d'un Solitaire 
Inconnu. 

NOTE 27, PAGE 342. 

Behind are the abandoned baths. 
The Baths of Leuk. This poem was conceived, and 
partly composed, in the valley going down from the foot of 
the Gemmi Pass towards the Rhone. 

NOTE 28, PAGE 348. 
Glion? — Ah, tiventy years, it cuts. 
Probably all who know the Vevey end of the Lake of 
Geneva, will recollect Glion, the mountain-village above 
the castle of Chillon. Glion now has hotch, pens ions,, 3.116. 
villas ; but twenty years ago it was hardly more than the 
huts of Avant opposite to it, — huts through which goes 
that beautiful path over the Col de Jaman, followed by 
so many foot-travellers on their way from Vevey to 
the Simmenthal and Thun. 

Bb 



370 NOTES. 

NOTE 29, PAGE 349. 
The gentian-Jloqver'd pass, its crown. 
See Note 15. 

NOTE 30, PAGE 349. 

^nd <walls luhere Byron came. 

Montbovon. See Byron's Journal, in his Works, vol. iii, 
p. 258. The river Saane becomes the Sarine below Mont- 
bovoa. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD'S WORKS, 



PUBLISHED BY 



MACMILLAN & CO. 



POEMS. American Edition, i vol $2 

English Edition. 2 vols 5 

ESSAYS IN CRITICISM. American Edition 2 

English Edition 3 

LITERATURE AND DOGMA 1.50 

GOD AND THE BIBLE 2 

CULTURE AND ANARCHY 3 

ST. PAUL AND PROTESTANTISM , 1.7S 

ISAIAH XL. — LXVL, etc., the Great Prophecy of Israel's Restoration. 1.50 

LAST ESSAYS ON CHURCH AND RELIGION 1.50 

HIGHER SCHOOLS AND UNIVERSITIES IN GERMANY.. 
MIXED ESSAYS 2.00 



POEMS. 



ARNOLD. 

POEMS. By Matthew Arnold. Collected Edition. 
Complete in one volume, i2mo, $2.00. 

English Edition. In two volumes, each $2.50. 



Vol. I. Early Poems, Narrative Poems, and Sonnets- 
Vol. II. Lyric, Dramatic, and Elegiac Poems. 



CLOUGH. 

POEMS. By Arthur Hugh Clough, sometime Fellow 
of Oriel College, O.xford. With a Memoir. Fifth Edition. 
i2mo, $2.00. 

THE POEMS AND PROSE REMAINS oi Arthur 

PIuGH Clough. With a Selection from his Letters and a 
Memoir. Edited by his wife. In two volumes, with a Por- 
trait. i2mo, $6.00. 

Vol. I. Life, Letters, Prose Remains. 
Vol. II. Poems. 



KINGSLEY. 

POEMS. Including " The Saint's Tragedy," "Androm- 
eda," Songs, Ballads, etc. By Charles Kingsley. Col- 
lected Edition. In one volume, i2mo, $2.00. 



By the autJior of " Mrs. Jcrningham'' s yournal" 

MRS. JERNINGHAM'S JOURNAL. Second Edition. 
75 cents. 

HARRY. By the author of "Mrs. Jerningham's Jour- 
nal." Third Edition. Fcap, 50 cents. 



MILTON. 

THE FOE TICAL WORKS OF JOHN MIL TON. Ed- 
ited, with Introductions, Notes, and an Essay on Milton's 
English, by David Masson, M. A., LL. D. With Por- 
traits. In three volumes, 8vo, $15.00. 

THE SAME. With Introductions and Notes by 

David Masson. Golden Treasury Edition. In two vol- 
umes, iSmo, $3.00. 

THE SAME. With Introductions by David Mas- 
son. Globe Edition. $1.25. 



MOULTRIE. 

FOEMS. By John Moultrie. New Edition. With Mem- 
oir by the Rev. Prebendary Coleridge. In two volumes, 
i2mo, $6.00. 

Vol. I. " My Brother's Grave," " Dream of Life," and other 
Poems. 

Vol. II. " Songs of the English Church," and other Poems. 
With Notices of the Rectors of Rugby, by M. H. Bloxani, 
F. R. A. S. 



NORTON. 

THE LADY OF LA GAR A YE. By the Hon. Mrs. 
Norton. With Portrait and Vignette. Fcap, $1.25. 



PALGRAVE. 

LYRICAL rOEMS. By FRANCIS Turner Palcrave. 
Fcap 8vo, 1 1. 50. 

THE GOLDEN TREASURY of the best Songs and 

Lyrical Poems in the English Language. Selected and 
arranged with Notes by Francis Turner Palgrave. 
Fcap 8vo, $1.25. 

THE CHILDREN'S 77;'£'^6'6^A'F of English Song. 

Selected and arranged with Notes by Francis Turner 
Palgrave. Fcap 8vo, $1.25. 



SMEDLEY. 

TWO DRAMA TIC POEMS. By Menella Bute Smed- 
LEY, author of "Lady Grace," "Queen Isabel," etc. Fcap 
Svo, $2.00. 



TRENCH. 

POEMS. By Richard Chenevix Trench, D. D., Arch- 
bishop of Dublin. New Edition. Fcap Svo, $2.50. 

A HOUSEHOLD BOOK OF ENGLISH POE- 
TRY. Selected and arranged with Notes by Richard 
Chenevix Trench, D. D., Archbishop of Dublin. Second 
Edition, Revised. Fcap Svo, $2.00 



MACMILLAN & COMPANY, 

NEW YORK. 



" These ' Globe Editions ' are admirable for their scholarly edit- 
ing, their typographical excellence, their compendious form, and 
their cheapness^ — SATURDAY REVIEW. 



MACMILLAN'S 

GLOBE LIBRARY. 



The editors, by their scholarship and special study of these 
authors, are competent to afford every assistance to readers of all 
kinds. This assistance is rendered by original biographies, glos- 
saries of unusual or obsolete words, and critical and explanatory 
notes. 

SHAKESPEARE. Edited by W. G. Clark, M. A., and 
W. Aldis Wright, M. A. 

" For the busy man, above all for the working student, this is the best of all 
existing Shakespeares." — AtheiicEum. 

SPENSER. Edited by Richard Morris. 
SCOTT. Edited by Francis Turner Palgrave. 
BURNS. Edited by Alexander Smith. 

"The most interestiBg edition which has ever been published." — Belt's 
Life. 

GOLDSMITH. Edited by Professor Masson. 
POPE. Edited by A. W. Ward. 

DRYDEN. Edited by W. D. Christie. 

" An admirable edition." — Pall Mall Gazette. 

COWPER. Edited by Rev. W. Benham. 

MORTE D'ARTHUR. Caxton's Edition, revised for 
modern use. 

ROBINSON CRUSOE. From the Original Editions. Ed- 
ited by Henry Kingsley. 

" A book to have and to keep.'''' — Star. 
VIRGIL. Rendered into English Prose by Lonsdale and Lee. 
" A more complete edition of Virgil in English it is scarcely possible to con- 
ceive than the scholarly work before us." — Globe. 

HORACE. By the same translators. 

MILTON. Edited by Professor Masson. 

Each volume in cloth, $1.25 ; or in half calf, library style, $3.00. 

" A series yet unrivaled for its combination of excellence and cheapness." — 
Daily Telegraph. 



MACMILLAN & CO., New York. 



